Room to Breathe
by Snarkcasm
Summary: Jay's struggling with losing his belt and a Viper he cannot shake.
1. Chapter 1

**Author**: Snarkcasm  
><strong>Rating<strong>: Teen, there's a few swear words and a tinge of self-harm in the form of over-exercising. Christian won't stop swearing, the potty mouth. Also pre-slash eventually turning into slash.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Jay's struggling with losing his belt and a Viper he cannot shake. Eventual Randy/Jay, Jay POV.  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: This is a blend of kayfabe and (totally make-believe) real life. I use the wrestlers' real names and the character names when appropriate, like during ring segments. This is about Christian and Randy's current dance-around. Honestly, with all the eyesex they do, they should just fuck. Trufax  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I do not own any rights to the WWE or the wrestlers mentioned in the story. This is a story of fiction and I make no money from it.  
><strong>Author's Note<strong>: The title comes from "So Amazing" by Cure Gravity. I've been listening to this song on repeat ever since I watched "Dark Rising" (if you love Christian, watch it! He's totally a goofball/horndog in it). To me, "So Amazing" is a Christian/Randy song in Randy's POV. Christian's so amazing, but he doesn't know it! This is unbeta'd and might be a oneshot (I'm still on the fence about that). Without further ado, my first wrestling fanfic!

**Room to Breathe, Chapter One**

White-hot rage boiled underneath his skin like an itch he could not scratch, a scab he could not pick; a nuisance he could not alleviate. He had paid his dues time and time again; for seventeen long, arduous, painful years, he kept working up that ladder and collecting his belts. And, after _seventeen_ years, he finally had it. The World Heavyweight Championship was his.

Five days later, he lost it. He fucking _lost_ it to Randy "I'm The Viper, Respect My Insanity" Orton, Mr. My-Finishing-Move-Takes-Five-Hours-With-My-Theatrics. He cranked the cold water tap and rubbed the freezing water over his haggard face. He wasn't being fair, he knew it. Creative's decision screwed him over royally. He lost his belt, he had to go out there a show later to swallow his pride, tag-teamed with Mr. Showboat himself, and by the way things were heading, he was turning Heel as well.

Bullshit. He was better than this. He would not go out like that. He twisted off the water and blindly groped for a towel. His cell phone chirped "I Feel Pretty" and he rolled his eyes. Adam. Probably the last person he wanted to talk to right now, next to Vince, anyone from Creative, and Randy "Show-Stealer" Orton.

He powered down his mobile and crawled into bed.

He was jerked out of his tenuous slumber by thunderous pounds. He stumbled towards the door, almost falling on his ass as the door was thrown open and a frantic Adam burst onto the scene, hair flying every which way. "Jay…Jay, are you all right?" He grasped the former Heavyweight champion by the elbows and stared at his face, searching for something. "You haven't been drinkin', have you?"

"No," Jay remarked moodily, "but, hey, that's a fantastic idea! I think there's some Jack in the mini-bar." He jerked out of Adam's hold and headed for the fridge in question before he was tugged right back into his best friend's one-armed hug. Reluctantly, Jay allowed himself to seek comfort in the embrace and hugged back furiously.

"Vince is a dick," Adam muttered in Jay's ear and he laughed, nails digging into the flesh of Adam's back. "I'm serious. This is Major League Douchebaggery."

"I know." Did he always sound this miserable? This pitiable? "But what can you do?" Jay stepped back and accessed his friend. Adam's shirt was a wrinkled mess and his eyes were red. "Why are you even here, Copeland?"

"I'm here to kick ass and chew bubblegum, and I'm all out of bubblegum," the freshly retired wrestler joked weakly, toothy smile diminishing at the glare Jay sent him. "Another wrestler called me. We're all worried about you, Jay. This…this is devastatingly cruel…even crueler than me pretending to be in love with Vickie." They shared a grimace at that ridiculous storyline.

But even Jay could tell when the Rated R Superstar was holding back information and he put enough distance in-between them to cross his arms. "Who sent you?"

"Look man, I know you. You're the brother I never had, y'know? I would never do anything to hurt you."

Adam's little spiel got old _fast. _"Adam Joseph Copeland, tell me who called you."

"Randy."

Jay's face fell. "Get out."

"Jay, he's not that bad of a guy, honestly." Oh, of course, how could Jay forget that fucker tag-teamed with his best friend? 'Rated RKO': his best friend and the man that stole his title. He gritted his teeth. He'd be _damned _if Orton stole his best friend too.

"The last thing, _the very last thing_, I want to do tonight is talk about him. I would rather take Sheamus' Celtic cross right up the ass with no lube than listen to you try and defend him of all people. Him, of all people, Adam. Seriously?" He faced the mini-bar, feeling a little petulant. "Go away, I wanna see how many tiny bottles it takes me to get rip-roaring drunk."

"No."

Jay's shoulders heaved in sarcastic, wheezing laughter. "'No'? How are you going to stop me—spear me?" His sardonic smirk slipped off his face as Adam's eyes widened in betrayal. The news of Adam's imminent paralysis was still fresh in the WWE roster gossip; Jay admitted that reminding him of his early retirement was a dick move. "I'm…I'm sorry," he apologized, reaching for Adam's sleeve.

Adam rebuffed the reach by putting on his leather jacket. "No. No. You're right. You had a shitty hand dealt, I get that. Go get stupid drunk; go whine to management. Fuck, strip down and flash the entire city—I could care less. But give me a call when you do grow up, William. Fight for your title back. You won't be able to do that when you have your head stuck up your ass. I'm in room 305." He placed a room key on the table. "Visit me before you head out. Charissa will want to see you, most likely to bitch about Denise." Jay winced; he and Denise were legally separated as of a few months ago. She couldn't deal with him being away all the time and during his six-month recuperation from a torn pectoral, she couldn't stand him being home either. Good to know that Adam was still good at digging claws into tender areas. "And, talk to Randy. He's just as pissed about this as you."

With one last hug and a choked back 'good bye', Jay watched Adam walk out of the room. He was right (of course he was); this wasn't Randy's fault. Truth be told, Christian wasn't the 'right' person to be the face of WWE as their champion. His struggle made for an interesting story, but he wasn't a huge splash. The franchise wanted to push another fan favorite up to Champ level, what with the huge feud between John Cena and R-Truth right now.

It was still sickening how he came out to a lukewarm reception while the true 'Heel' of the story came out to thunderous applause. His hands curled into a fists and he slammed them down on the dresser drawer. The little lecture he got from Adam did nothing for his rage but inflame it. He needed exercise. He couldn't run; he was afraid of actually running away for good with all the breath left in his body.

Gym it was.

He grabbed his duffle bag and his key card and left, flipping up the hood of his worn, gray hoodie up and putting his iPod buds in his ear. The hotel wasn't that big; he didn't want to run into another wrestler and hear false condolences right now.

He ran as if Hell itself was nipping at his heels. The whirl of the treadmill and thud of his footsteps, the burn of muscles being pushed to the limit over and over again, accompanied the loud Rock in his ears and he felt a semblance of peace. He was easy-going to a fault; the sickly feeling of resentment and anger disgusted him. He needed to sweat that out. Maybe he'd feel normal then.

It was an old joke to ask a runner if he was running towards or from something; right now, Jay couldn't even answer that question. He ran until his legs screamed and cramped and further beyond. Sweat and tears fell down his face in equal turn, but he needed to run or else he was going to float away.

One misstep had him stumbling off the machine, bowlegged like a drunk. His muscles, weak from pain, could no longer support him and he crumpled to the ground, accidentally bashing his head against the rail. Dizzy, he was so fucking dizzy; he fumbled into his pockets for his cell phone. Shit, he left it upstairs. He sucked in breath after heated, sweat-soaked breath, planning out his next move. In any circumstance, he needed to get to help and the only way to do it was crawl his pathetic ass out the door and hope for one of those courtesy phones nearby.

The lights, the fucking lights were so fucking bright. Curled up in a ball, Jay screwed his eyes shut against the onslaught of artificial light and cradled his head with his arms, praying that tonight would be over already.

"Shit. Someone call the trainers!" Fuck, could they—whoever they were—shut up for a minute? Jay just wanted some peace and quiet; he earned it. He was moved in a sitting position and he embarrassingly threw up bile before slumping into whoever was kind enough to be there.

"Jay, if you can hear me, open your eyes." A quiet, authoritative voice had Jay squinting. Only trainers used that voice; did he just lose a match or get hit by a semi? A pen light shone in his eyes and he would have jerked back if the trainer didn't have the forethought to grip his chin. "Slower than normal pupil response time." Gloved hands then groped his skull looking for bumps or contusions. "Minor cut on forehead. Listen to me, this is important: what is your full name, birthday, today's date, and the current president?"

Jay rattled off all the answers with a roll of his eyes. He had concussions before and this wasn't one; he wasn't stupid. All he needed was supervision and maybe something greasy to eat. He hissed when the trainer's hands fluttered down his legs. He overdid the treadmill and his body was staging a full rebellion.

"No rips, tears, or pulls, not for the lack of trying." Jay sneered. He had his brother-in-law for passive-aggressiveness; he didn't need any more lip. Just as a precaution, his knees and ankles were wrapped up in cold packs to alleviate swelling. The trainer sat back on his haunches and pulled off his gloves with a snap. "Jason has only minor swelling in his knee and ankle joints. From a preliminary glance, he has all the classic symptoms of a simple concussion. He needs to be monitored throughout the night."

Jay blinked and looked down at the bed. He was back in his own room. Huh. Tired, he lolled his head towards the trainer and started at the two figures behind him: Rhodes and DiBiase. He did not see that coming at all except in a universe that loved to fuck with him. "'M fine," he slurred, thus refuting that statement in its entirety. The trainer just glared at him. "Okay, so 'mnot, but I don't need a babysitter." He flapped a hand at Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum in the corner and from their identical frowns he realized he just called them that out loud. "Whoops," he hiccupped and curled in on himself.

"He needs basic supervision until a morning check-up, which another trainer will stay behind and do. I have to head to RAW's taping and the flight leaves in," the trainer checked his watch as he doled out some acetaminophen tablets, "about three hours. Concussion standard procedure is simple, I have a pamphlet in my bag. Now, who's going to watch over him?"

DiBiase raised his hand and nudged a pouting Rhodes square in the ribs. "We will, sir." The trainer nodded gratefully and scribbled something, a number Jay could make out, on the top-right corner of the 'Concussion and You!' leaflet. With a terse goodbye and a stern warning for Jay to take the pills, the trainer packed up his things and fled.

Rhodes plopped into a chair with an explosion of air and a tangle of limbs. "Great, Ted, you and your Nightingale syndrome," he lisped with a roll of his eyes.

Ted didn't even look up from where he was studying the pamphlet and elected to give the man the finger. Jay struggled into a sitting position and dry-swallowed the pills. "Okay, boys. Thanks for the whole being here thing, but I'm going to ask ya to leave." If he weren't so tired, he would have flapped his hands to shoo them or flip on the Killswitch—whichever one was easier.

Ted looked scandalized while Cody scrunched up his face unattractively. For someone whose whole gimmick lingered on his looks, he should be more aware of wrinkles. Cody squeaked and touched his face; damn, he said that out loud again, didn't he?

"You did." Ted sounded suspiciously vindicated. He took the empty twin bed and sprawled out. "Just settle down and get some rest. We'll take turns waking you up every hour or so."

"We will?"

Ted glared. "Yes we will, Cody. You found him."

"And he's _fine_. The trainer even said so!"

"Will you guys shut _up_?" Jay grounded out through a clenched jaw. "If you two clowns can't be quiet and let me sleep, then get the hell out! Better yet, leave now or I'm calling hotel security." He punched a pillow into submission and threw blankets over his head, hoping the idiots got the point. He was in no mood to deal with two-thirds of the defunct Legacy. Ever.

He didn't completely relax until the lights were flipped off and the door shut with a final click.

A light shake some time later had him flailing his arms about, hoping to connect with flesh. He succeeded if the hissed, pained noise was any indication. Jay smirked, knowing full well his slaps hurt like a bitch.

He complained loudly when his cocoon was tugged down and his face exposed to the chilly air in response. "What's your full name?"

"William Jason Reso, stage name Christian, Christian Cage, Captain Charisma, blah, blah, blah. Is that good enough, Sexton Hardcastle?" he grumbled and tugged up his covers. "Leave me alone, Adam, tryin' to sleep."

"Okay, smartass, any dizziness, nausea, uh…" Adam looked to the pamphlet, "Photo sensitivity?"

"No. Still breathing."

"That was a _stupid _thing to do yesterday." Jay groaned loudly, tugging his pillow over his head to see what would happen first: his suffocation or Adam leaving him the hell alone.

He was betting on suffocation.

"I agree." Jay's muscles locked at the new voice. Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck. He gripped his leg muscles and glared up at the new voice.

"Go away, Orton. 'S none of your business."

"None of _my_ business? Jay—"

The last thing he wanted to hear was Randy's weak excuse of a consoling tone. He sat up quickly, pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off the headache, and stared down both Adam and Randy. Adam had the grace to look sheepish. Randy squared up for an argument, bearded jaw jutting out mulishly and brows furrowed over arctic blues.

A thousand words and countless unspoken arguments passed between the former and current Heavyweight Champions. Jay finally relented with a shoulder slump and settled back in his pillows. He held out his hands pleadingly. "I appreciate the concern, guys, I do. But this isn't my first head bump and it isn't going to be my last. I'll be fine and back to normal soon, I give you my word. Just…just let me mope for a bit, okay? It's not easy being a five-day champion."

Now it was Randy's turn to look away. Everybody and their mother knew of Randy's first title betrayal, but he had at least fourteen days of being Champion to Christian's five. There were no more words as the current Champion turned and left.

Adam squeezed one of Jay's hands. "Man, I know you know deep down that it's not his fault. He didn't want to go out there."

Jay had a hard time believing that drivel and it showed on his face. "I'm serious. When he found out what Creative had in store, he went up to them and imploded. I mean seriously, Mark Henry and Khali? You deserved better…and Creative agreed, adding Orton and Stephen in the mix."

"So…this is because Orton couldn't un-bunch his spankies for one minute? Creative wouldn't have let me lose against Khali and Henry. Those guys aren't that high on the pop scale. But, add in Randy Orton? I was destined to lose."

"Hey now, quit talking about destiny. You're starting to sound like Del Rio." Their eyes connected and simultaneously, they reenacted Rodriguez's stupid intro, complete with the rolling 'r's (which Jay frankly sucked at) and super elongated 'o's. Jay slung an arm around his aching midsection and wiped his face free of tears.

They reminisced about the old days before Adam squeezed him about the changes in the Company. Jay rolled his eyes; for as much as Adam portrayed himself as above backroom gossip in interviews, he was very much a gossip slut. So, like any good friend, Jay gave him what he wanted. Bryan and Luis were kindasorta_maybe_ dating—yes, even with the language barrier; apparently, Danielson knew Spanish well enough to communicate with 'Sin Cara'. Ted and Cody were still disgustingly attached to the hip, but rumor had it that Rhodes was looking somewhere else. Michelle and Layla were on the outs because Michelle wanted to focus more on her relationship with Mark. Andrew was still working out the kinks in his divorce settlement with Tiffany and John Hennigan was as prickly as a cactus without his boyfriend, or so he's been told. And Trish came back and made out with Barbara in the backroom after saving her from LayCool. Now _that_ was entertainment.

All and all, it made for a very entertaining rom-com. Not so much a good working environment, but Jay never got into another's business; that was Adam's job.

Around six in the morning, Adam's phone rang. It was Charissa demanding where the hell he was. While Adam was calming down his woman, Jay gingerly stretched sore muscles, popping things into place and massaging away charley horses. He made a mental note to contact the Company's chiropractor for a deep tissue massage. Debbie liked him enough that a few puppy dog eyes tossed her way could buy him enough table time to work out his fucked up back.

If he had any chance in regaining his title, he needed to be at one hundred percent. Make no mistake; he was getting his belt back even if it killed him. Adam ended his phone call with Charissa, a hangdog expression on his face. "I have to head back. D'ya have the number of that trainer?" Jay pointed to the pamphlet Ted graciously left, rubbing his eyes. Damn, he was bone tired and his stomach was trying to eat its lining out of sheer desperation.

The trainer, a female and decidedly gentler over the last one, gave a quick, efficient examination. They went to a doctor and had his head x-rayed just in case. Luckily, it wasn't a concussion—he was just dazed, overly stressed, fatigued, and starving. After a fifteen-minute lecture in taking care of his body, he slinked away from the office—tail tucked between his legs—and darted into a nearby McDonald's. Greasy food was definitely a gift from above, he thought, mouth watering at the hash browns and Egg McMuffins. He inhaled his food as only a pro Wrestler could and sucked down the piping hot, cavity-inducing weak coffee.

"I knew I'd find you here." Jay pursed his lips as Randy sat down in front of him. A booth full of girls started pointing and tittering amongst themselves.

Jay smiled with too many teeth and gestured grandly with his remaining hash brown. There wasn't much he could do in the presence of fans. As much as he would love to give Randy the reaming of a lifetime, he didn't need a lecture on professionalism from Management.

Randy's nose wrinkled. "How can you eat this garbage?" Jay looked up from where he was smearing grape jelly on his hash brown and smirked at the green tinge to the other man's face. That image made the grape-slathered, overly processed potatoes go down smoother.

He wiped the corners of his mouth primly, enjoying the moment while it lasted. "We all can't exist on protein bars and shakes, Orton."

"'Orton'," the other man repeated contemplatively, rubbing the patchy overgrowth on his beard. "You know, there was a time when I was just Randy."

Jay's hands clenched into fists underneath the table. He knew exactly as to what Randy was referring. The gall of the man to bring that up in public! "That was a long time ago, buried in the past."

Randy got up in one smooth movement and leaned into Jay's personal space. A chill ran down Jay's spine at the coldly accessing stare of The Viper up close and personal, outside of the ring. Randy tilted his head in a decidingly serpentine way and his nostrils flared as if scenting the air, scenting Jay. Jay met Randy stare for stare with a stubborn jaw until the arctic chill became too much for him and he broke eye contact. Randy eased up with an amused curl of his lip. "Perhaps not as buried as you'd like to think, Jay."

Jay gritted his teeth, refusing to meet the other's eyes. "Don't call me that." He knew Randy was staring at him. His existence was undeniable, as unfathomable as the fucking ocean and twice as murky. Even as the pressure of the man's presence eased up, Jay had a hard time finishing the rest of his food and the food he did manage to get down settled heavily in his churning gut.

He was _so_ fucked.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author**: Snarkcasm  
><strong>Rating<strong>: Teen, there's a few swear words; Christian won't stop swearing, the potty mouth. Also pre-slash eventually turning into slash.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Jay's struggling with losing his belt and a Viper he cannot shake. Eventual Randy/Jay, Jay POV.  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: This is a blend of kayfabe and (totally make-believe) real life. I use the wrestlers' real names and the character names when appropriate, like during ring segments. This is about Christian and Randy's current dance-around. Honestly, with all the eyesex they do, they should have wild sex. Trufax  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I do not own any rights to the WWE or the wrestlers mentioned in the story. Anything recognizable is also something I don't own. I also do not own the concept of food. This is a story of fiction and I make no money from it.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong>I want to thank everyone who looked at my first attempt at Wrestling fanfiction. And, I want to doubly thank those who left such wonderful reviews. You guys made me grin so hard that my cheeks are still hurting days later. This chapter is for you (my Peeps)!  
>Bryan Danielson is adorkable. I will not apologize for mentioning something so blatantly obvious. For all those potential RandyChristian shippers, I have complied their complete feud starting with the tag-team match against Del Rio and Clay with youtube clips and inspirational pictures! Just PM me for details. I hope to see more Randy/Christian stories! Un-beta'd :)

**Room to Breathe, Chapter Two**

A quick jog to his room to grab Adam's room key and Jay was off to Room 305 like a shot. Adam didn't say how long he and Charissa were going to be in town, but he wanted to see them off. He had been a huge dick about the whole thing and he didn't want Adam to leave without doing the manly thing and shot-gunning a few brewskis. And, maybe, if Bro Code allowed, he could squeeze in a manly apology hug.

He slipped the card into the lock and opened the door. A petite blonde with hazel eyes and freckles splashed across the bridge of her nose looked up from where she was zipping up her luggage and dragged him down to her level for a hug. They broke apart and she slugged him in the arm. He clutched his wound in—mostly—feigned hurt. For such a small woman, her hits packed a punch.

"Jay, it's been too long! I missed you like hell. Why haven't you called?"

Charissa avoided the WWE like the plague; her lack of letting Edge's stardom get to her head was part of the reason why she and Adam were still together. "Busy with work."

"Are you going to kick that title stealer's ass?"

So she _had _been keeping track! After a year of trying to get her involved, he finally did it! Adam owed him fifty dollars and he planned to collect soon. "I'll try my damnedest."

"You better, Jay." She dug another, smaller bag from under the bed and began shoving toiletries into it. "I'm glad Adam talked me into leaving Shannon's house a few days earlier to come up here. Of course, Shannon's a drunken bitch, so I was glad to—"

Jay held up a hand to stem the vitriol. "Wait, what?"

"Shannon's an alkie, you know that. She tried hitting on you that one time at the family reunion, remember?"

How could he forget? Having a middle-aged woman with three kids try and seduce him in broad day light was enough to make him wish his dick could retract completely into his body. He shuddered at the memory. "You guys were nearby?"

"Yeah. We managed to get some tickets and, well, after I saw that tag-team, I was ready to spear that spray-tanned, overly-tattooed bozo!"

As touching as her support was, Randy could probably break her in half, no sweat. Even so, Jay had to give her props for her insults. "Randy's not that bad. He's a talented wrestler." 'Talented wrestler'? He might as well have told her Randy liked breathing for all the good that statement did. "Um, and a good person."

Charissa rolled her eyes but didn't comment further as she torpedoed around the room, hunting down stray items. Jay watched her in her frenzy, stretched out on the only made bed in the room. He propped himself up on his elbows when she got close. "Where's your boyfriend?"

She made a vague hand motion. "Off catching up with some other wrestling buddies. Our flight for Asheville leaves tonight."

Puppyish, he sat up and hovered over the gap between the beds. "Wanna go out to eat before then? Now that Adam's retired, I barely get to see you guys."

She took out her phone and tapped on the keyboard furiously. After a few seconds, she put her phone in her pocket and tucked back a piece of stray hair. "He'll be here in a bit."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I said if he didn't get here in fifteen minutes, I was withdrawing sex for a week."

Jay winced. Charissa was not to be messed with; noted and filed. They sat side by side, counting down the minutes.

Nine minutes passed and Adam flew through the door, eyes wild. Charissa's all-too-smug smirk sent Jay into peals of laughter. Adam stood there, confused. She tugged Adam to her and kissed him on the cheek. "Let's go to dinner, hun. We missed you."

Dinner was a comfortable affair, almost too comfortable. There was laughter, tears, more wine than a wino could (or should) shake a stick at, and Jay didn't want it to end. All too soon, he was seeing them off at the airport, hugging the both of them and promising to call at every stop.

"Let me know how things between you and Randy play out," Adam had whispered in his ear and Jay promised; although, there was going to be nothing to talk about, not if he had any say in the matter. He waved them off and took a cab back to the hotel. Adam and Charissa's departure just served to remind him of A) his loneliness and B) the fact he needed to get his ass moving and pack up soon. Most of the SmackDown roster was leaving for Corpus Christi tomorrow and as an Opener, his ass needed to get up early and pack for his eleven AM flight.

He ran into Cody and Ted on the way back to his room and he apologized for his behavior last night, blaming his head injury for any rudeness. From the look on his face, Cody didn't believe that bullshit, but Ted did. That was plenty for Jay. He reassured Ted that all systems were a go and the man left, led by his irate lover. Those two were strange, Jay decided firmly.

For the rest of the night, he dead-bolted the door because he wouldn't put giving Randy a spare key past Adam and holed himself up in his room playing _Robot Unicorn Attack_ on his Droid and mouthing along with Erasure. The life of a pro wrestler was enviable, man. Right in the middle of a run, his phone bleeped 'Adam' with a text message.

"_(781)__Her boyfriend was wrestling another girl. But, she said she was okay with it because she kept checking for boners-w the back of her hand like she was checking for a fever._"

He snorted, brought up his web browser, and painstakingly typed in in the tiny site bar. And, thus, the text war began.

Around eleven Charissa chimed in with:

"_(440):__Any time you start making pro __wrestling__ references before 10 PM I know that I'm breaking up a fight between you and some muscled up frat boy you call Hogan,"_ which sent Jay into a spasm of cackles. He sent a couple more gems to both of them before his yawns and itchy eyes begged him to stop. His lack of decent sleep yesterday was kicking his ass right now. He pecked out goodbyes to both of them before getting ready for bed and falling asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

/

He was never playing _Robot Unicorn Attack_ and trolling through drunken texts before bed ever again. It led to fucked up dreams about robot unicorns wrestling in Jello. Wiping the last remnants of sleep from his eyes, he took care of his hygiene (forgoing shaving because Creative told him to keep his patchy beard fuzz) and hunted for his missing sock. How it landed between the bulb and lampshade, he would never know. Everything packed and ready to go, he made sure to grab his manila folder containing his script, tickets, hotel information, and itinerary.

There was also a customary list of dos and don'ts that every wrestler had memorized already. _Do_ be kind to each fan. _Don't_ break kayfabe. _Do _be respectful and courteous to the citizens, your hotel staff; your fellow wrestlers; you are part of the WWE brand. _Don't _be a prick.

Easy.

Shoving sunglasses on, he shouldered his duffle bag and grabbed his roller luggage, wheeling it down to the shuttle bus. Another bad thing about _Robot Unicorn Attack_ was that the damn song got stuck in your head like no one's business. So, there he stood, shuffling his feet and absentmindedly humming the words to "Always".

"And live in harmony, harmony, oh love." The new voice, a surprisingly lovely tenor, had him throwing his hands up in a ninja pose. Bryan Danielson. Jay relaxed at the American's broad grin, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Late night playing _Robot Unicorn_?"

"You play?" Then Jay thought about it; of course Danielson played. He was a self-proclaimed nerd. Even though the announcers made a big deal over the fact the man didn't own a TV, which he didn't, Danielson still had a phone and a laptop. It was the twenty-first century, after all.

He liked Danielson—had liked him ever since the tag-team match against him in ROH a few years back—and, consequently, _hated_ what the WWE was doing to him. WWE never really accepted ROH alumni and that was a shame; Danielson had the moves and the heart to become something great in the Company. Anyone who was trained by the Heartbreak Kid, the legend himself, should have a break in Jay's humble opinion.

They spent the time waiting for the shuttle just chatting about nothing in particular and picking at the sticky-sweet doughnuts the hotel had for continental breakfast. It was too early for sweets and Jay's stomach wholeheartedly agreed. Danielson was just shredding his doughnut for fun; doughnuts weren't Vegan apparently. Jay learned something today.

"How can they, in any way, shape, or form, call doughnuts continental?" Jay said as he tossed the shredded pile of carbs away and scrubbed icing off with a cheap napkin. "Have the dignity to have some Canadian bacon at the minimum for God's sake."

Danielson waggled his eyebrows. "Was that your nickname in high school?" Jay knocked his shoulder against the other man's for that perceived insult. "Y'know what—me, you, and Sin Cara should tag-team. We can call ourselves 'Continental Buffet'."

"Or NAFTA."

"North American Alliance."

"Three Countries' Worth of Pain, shorten it to Thekawooop."

"Wait, wait-I got it. Breakfast Club!"

"Oh, man, I like that. Our symbols could be, like, uh, real Canadian bacon—I'm talking about back bacon because the stuff they sell here is atrocious, some weird-ass Vegan pancakes, and huevos rancheros! Wait, are huevos rancheros Mexican or Tex-Mex?"

Someone's stomach growled and both men made a face. "No more talk about food." Jay agreed, and they shook on it. When the shuttle pulled up, Bryan and Jay were joined by several other wrestlers like Stephen "Sheamus" Farelly, Mark Henry, Yamamoto "Yoshi Tatsu" Naofumi, and the Uso brothers. Mark Henry had greeted Jay with a clasp of the shoulders before throwing his luggage into the shuttle and getting into his rental car. Stephen also clapped him on the shoulder.

Far from his in-ring persona, Stephen was a great guy to hang with; he could drink anyone under the table and his pool (or snooker as the redhead demanded after the first three whiskey shots) was just as deadly as his Irish Curse. His darts sucked, though, and seeing his pale face purpling in blotchy rage was well worth the morning after hangover.

"See ya in the ring bright and early, fella," the Irishman called. They were the first ones out of the gate. Jay shook out his arms in anticipation and sent the other wrestler an easy smile. Wrestling Sheamus was not unlike going toe-to-toe with a bulldozer; Christian was going to have some fun taking him down. Speaking of Christian, Jay had to get warmed up. The flight to Corpus Christi would only take a few hours, so he'd have plenty of time to stretch out his sore legs before the show. Adam was right; running into the ground was a _stupid_ thing to do.

He waved Bryan off at his gate and hurried to his own. Before liftoff, he received a good luck text from Adam and another text containing the chorus of "Always" by Bryan. Smiling, he powered down his phone and curled into his window seat, drowning out the noise with his iPod and leafing through the book he just purchased from the gift shop.

The flight touched down in Corpus Christi mid-afternoon and the first thing he did was send a text to Adam. In all honesty, he wouldn't put it past his long-time friend to call someone to check up on Jay if he didn't respond in a timely fashion. He quickly checked into his hotel room and deposited his junk on his bed. The rest of the day floated by as Jay prepared for his match tomorrow.

He had an early dinner with Paul a few hours before the show. Jay always admired the giant of the Industry. The huge man was a veteran like him, and also like him, kayfabe was important but not all-encompassing. They didn't hole themselves up like Calloway or ham it up like Cena. If fans came up to them (unavoidable when one was with the Big Show), they would politely field questions and sign autographs. They weren't scripted together or feuding, so Creative couldn't complain if pictures popped up. All and all, Paul was the perfect person to hang out with.

"What's wrong, Jason?"

The only thing bad about the Big Show was that Paul was too damn perceptive.

Jay fiddled with his empty coffee cup. "We both know why I'm upset."

Paul shook his head and took up his cutlery, comically dwarfed in his meaty paws. "This goes deeper than your title loss, as regrettable as that was."

"Adam visited me yesterday," Jay found himself blurting out.

Paul's eyebrow rose at the unexpected news. "And who called him?"

"That's the thing—Randy did!" Jay said, leaning in to keep their conversation from being overheard. He didn't need the Universe getting a hold of his personal life.

Paul blotted the corners of his mouth and set the napkin down beside his empty plate. So fraught with nerves, Jay didn't even touch his house salad and had to cancel his main order.

Fuck, if this thing with Randy was tearing him apart _already_, it was going to be a tough feud.

"Let's go for a walk. This town has a lovely little park down the block." Paul wasn't accustomed to suggestion; when one was seven feet tall, other people tended to do as asked. Jay was no different as he followed the towering mountain of a man out of the restaurant.

A Peep came up to him and asked if he would mind taking a picture with his baby girl. Always happy to oblige a fan, Jay gingerly held the tiny toddler and flashed his signature charismatic grin, years of being in front of flash bulbs had curbed his reflex to wince. He then signed a slip of paper for his Peep and Peep-to-Be.

"Thank you so much. You have no idea how much you made my day," the fan gushed, jiggling the now-wriggling child in his arms. "And you totally deserve that title back. They cheated ya, even my wife agrees and she's hardcore Team Viper." Spirits lifted, Jay bade the man and his daughter good bye, glowing as he sauntered up to a waiting Paul. It was so good to hear support from fans, especially in the place he was now.

Paul clapped him on the shoulder and, wholly unprepared for it, Jay's knees buckled a little. He waved off the apology, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "So, where's this park?" He had no doubt the park was good; Paul always arrived a day or two ahead of schedule because he had to travel via tour bus. He was notorious for scouting the local flavor and giving the other wrestlers pointers on the nightlife.

"Just one more block."

Awesome. Jay stopped by a hot dog cart and paid for a dog with all the trimmings. His appetite was returning and he was grateful. Licking his lips, he sunk his teeth into the loaded dog, scooping up the ketchup oozing down his chin and licking it off his finger.

"Glad to see your appetite returned," Paul remarked blandly and Jay scrunched up his nose. He wasn't as health conscious as most of the employees in the Company, but he exercised regularly and took his vitamins like a good little wrestler. Hell, he earned this hotdog! He spitefully bit off more hotdog in response.

"Yeah," he mumbled through a full mouth before he swallowed. They walked along the riverside trail for a while in companionable silence before he exploded. "So, Adam, he wants me to talk to Randy. I don't get it. Apparently, from what I heard from Adam, Randy bitched to Creative about my storyline with Mark Henry and Khali and they dropped him and Stephen into the mess. Yet, he's going out there all SuperFace with _my _title while I'm turning Heel. How fair is that?"

"Life's not fair. You know this. Don't go off complaining to the Internet or the first reporter you see. Stick to the storyline, you'll have a better chance of a shot at winning back your title that way. As for your supposed heel turn, you have a fan-base, Jay. Your Peeps will love you no matter what side of the fence you're on."

Jay scratched the back of his neck. "When you put it that way, I feel like a self-conscious pre-teen. 'Oh em gee, I don't know what I'm gonna do!'" he mocked himself bitterly, crushing the hotdog wrapper into a little ball and tossing it in a garbage can. It rebounded off the rim for a sweet bank shot. LeBron had nothing on him.

"Well, in this franchise, if you're not talked about, you're not pushed. Heel, Face, it don't matter. You are getting plenty stage time, don't worry about it."

"I know, I know. I just…it's a huge blow and it's taking its toll. I miss doing my _job_ without commentary about my character's state of mind. It's distracting." They settled down at a bench and Jay spent most of his time outside of bitching trying to entice one of the geese to come closer with the rest of his hotdog.

Paul looked at his watch and groaned, getting up. Jay craned his neck up to look at the man. "Have fun with it, Jay. You always made an interesting Heel."

Talking with someone completely uninvolved did wonders for his mental health and Jay practically skipped back to the hotel. Too bad that Paul was leaving right after the show in order to reach the next city in time for the next SmackDown or Raw—wherever the whole reunion with Kane went; Jay really liked talking to him.

Still riding the natural high of fan appreciation, he psyched up for the night's action. Tugging up his elbow guards he bounced a little on his feet. He was the greatest, dammit, and he was going to prove how deserving of the World Heavyweight Title he was. Christian lingered just below the surface, longing to come out and play, and he slipped into his ring persona as easily as he slipped into his ring boots.

"Good luck, Fella." Jay gazed up and acknowledged Stephen with a tiny wave.

"Thanks, man. That means a lot." He hooked his feet under the iron-wrought, bolted bench legs and did some crunches.

"How d'ya think this storyline will shape up?"

Jay paused in mid-crunch, face thoughtful. "Me with my belt back."

Stephen leaned in, caging Jay in his arms, eyes as flat and manic as his Celtic character. "Are ya sure about that?"

What the hell was going on? Jay gripped the bench and unhooked his feet with a bit of difficulty. His left foot snagged and he swore, throwing his hands up to act like a buffer between him and Stephen. "Okay, I get the whole method acting thing, but it's just a storyline, dude, no need to get all psycho on me."

"Back away from him now." For the love of Pete. Jay freed his foot, pushed Stephen away, and got up, getting into Randy's personal space and glaring at the man.

"Is this going to be a thing, now? You skulking in the corner, doing whatever you're doing—" Jay didn't even want to imagine what Randy was doing prior to interrupting him and whatever the hell was going on with Stephen. "And being a general pain in my ass? Leave it for the mat, Orton. That goes double for you Farelly. Piss me off again, and I'll conveniently forget to pad my Killswitches next time we meet in the ring."

He left the general locker room area for his own dressing room, never more thankful for locks in his life.

"_Match soon. May kill Orton l8er. Ttyl if not arrstd," _he texted Adam before tossing his phone in his personal bag. He had a Universe to satisfy tonight, and he was bringing his A game.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author**: Snarkcasm  
><strong>Rating<strong>: Teen, there's a few swear words; Christian won't stop swearing, the potty mouth. Also pre-slash eventually turning into slash.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Jay's struggling with losing his belt and a Viper he cannot shake. Eventual Randy/Jay, Jay POV.  
><strong>Warning(s)<strong>: This is a blend of kayfabe and (totally make-believe) real life. I use the wrestlers' real names and the character names when appropriate, like during ring segments. This is about Christian and Randy's current dance-around. Honestly, with all the eyesex they do, they should just get a room already. Trufax. Unbeta'd.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I do not own any rights to the WWE or the wrestlers mentioned in the story. This is a story of fiction and I make no money from it.  
><strong>Author's Note<strong>: I was having too much fun with pop culture last chapter; sorry about that, I guess. Thank you all who read my story and thank you from the bottom of my heart to those who took the time to review. You guys motivate me as much as re-watching all the Christian/Randy clips on youtube does! This chapter contains quite a bit of glossed over wrestling and little bit of wangst (sorry about that). It might be a little confusing to read since I switch from character name to real name whenever something off-script happens. If it's too confusing, tell me and I'll switch it to either all character names or all real names :)

**Room to Breathe, Chapter Three**

He waited in the wings for his music to start up. As soon as the drums kicked off, he bounded out to applause, a wild grin on his face. This, this feeling, made everything worthwhile. He made sure to do everything possible to get his Peeps to their feet: he searched for them, pointed them out, and got up on the top turnbuckle drinking it all in. As soon as his ring theme faded, he hopped down and shook out his limbs. The script didn't call for a lot of high risk maneuvers, but Christian was taking a lot of hits to the head tonight. Great, that shouldn't fuck up his previous head injury, right? He rolled his shoulders.

The bell dinged, and Christian clapped his hands, body low to the ground as he built up momentum from his Peeps. The first grapples for dominance turned into the first pin quickly, and Christian shouldered out, knocking Sheamus on the back of the head. The match went as scheduled, but as soon as he got on the top turnbuckle, Sheamus ploughed into him and bashed him square on his forehead. Pain, in the form of an almost blinding headache, shook Jay up and he toppled to the floor head first, knocking his head against the ring apron. _That wasn't supposed to happen_, he thought woozily, concentrating more on re-learning how to breathe than worrying about the camera shoved in his face.

On trembling arms, he pulled himself up and clung to the middle rope like a lifeline, trying to quiet the ringing in his ears. Once the pain was manageable, he shimmied up to the turnbuckle to get back to the script, dived at Sheamus, and pinned him. Sheamus then kneed him right in the fucking face and he gritted his teeth, riding out the agony. He quickly scrambled to pin Sheamus again and received a nice piledrive in return. The back of his head hit the mat full force and no amount of padding could have cushioned the smacking blow.

He had a bigger problem than his head. He could fight through the pain; he had done it before. However, the Irishman's shoulder had hit him in the wrong place, right in his diaphragm, and knocked the wind right out of him. Christian gasped for air, clutching his midsection and only half playing up the injury. He used one of his signals to Stephen, and the man fell back, pretending to be dazed while Jay recovered.

"Are you all right?" The referee leaned over him.

"Yeah," Jay said, "just need a bit—a bit more." He couldn't even squeeze out the word "time" as he fought for breath. Getting to his hands and knees, he was immediately pushed into the last place he wanted to be: between Sheamus's sweaty, pale thighs. He vaulted the man over his shoulder and drove his elbow into the man's face from the turnbuckle to the roar and gasps of the crowd.

He clapped and went for a Killswitch that was quickly countered, spun out of Sheamus's hold, and landed wrong on his feet, falling flat on his ass. Shit, what the hell was up with him tonight? He scrambled to run into Sheamus's Irish Curse and nearly forgot to shoulder out of his next pin, rolling away to clear his head. Wasting no time, Sheamus whipped Christian around like a ragdoll and pushed him back up the turnbuckle. Christian threw a few punches and slaps for distraction. In desperation, he threw himself at Sheamus, hooking his arm around the other's neck and whirling the solid body through a Tornado DDT.

The next time Christian had an opening to pin, he took it to the three-count for the win. His music kicked in and he basked in the glory while trying not to vomit up his guts. The referee flittered to his side and helped him to his knees.

Mark Henry, a huge, unstoppable freight train of a man on a regular day, rumbled into the ring. Jay didn't have enough time to warn Mark about his head injury and just braced himself for the worse, gripping the sides of Mark's boot when the man stomped on his head as if it was a ripe grape. Both predators, Mark and Sheamus cornered Christian and made quick work of him while Jay hoped Randy got his ass out here soon. Damn, he never thought he'd think that in a million years.

The crowd started up again—Randy—and Jay patted Mark on the arm and mouthed: "Head hurts". Instead of head-butting him, Mark just cradled his head in his plate-sized hands.

Why the hell wasn't Orton in the ring already? As much as Jay loved having two different feet trying to crush his windpipe, this shit wasn't funny anymore. He slapped at one boot as his vision grayed around the edges and kicked out his feet, curling one leg over the lower rope in the universal sign of surrender. Stephen backed off completely as Mark towered over his sprawled-out body.

Christian was supposed to fight Mark Henry, but Jay just couldn't muster up the energy past the pounding headache. Gulping down air, he shielded his eyes against the glare of the stadium lights.

Someone patted his side. Referees didn't normally check for injuries in-ring unless scripted, which left Orton. What the hell was he doing? Jay was pulled into a standing position, and he leaned into the offered strength reluctantly. As soon as he was on his feet, he pushed off.

"You okay? C'mon!" Randy shouted. Jay could barely catch the words through the crowd and the constant roar in his head, but he was grateful. _Christian_ was grateful. This—the rescue, making sure he was all right—was just script. Christian was grateful and he patted Randy on the arm.

"Thanks, man," he said, holding out his hand for Randy to shake. They were going to do the manly thing and clap each other's back, but Randy flipped the script at the last minute, pulling Jay—_Christian_—into a hug and forcing Christian to put his arms around the Viper in return. Confused as all hell, Jay gazed up at Randy, only to find the other man glaring menacingly towards the ring entrance.

The other man was staring at Sheamus. It wasn't the "cold and calculating" stare of the Viper; this stare was pure Randy. Jay slapped the man a few times on the chest, hoping to communicate a return to script with his character's easy-going grin. The next time Randy glared it was all Viper, and Jay was glad, patting the man on the shoulder and grabbing his side.

"Okay to walk?" Randy touched Jay's side again, a mere brush against sweaty skin.

Jay shrugged off the concern and crawled through the ropes. "I'm fine. Ribs aren't cracked, just bruised." Randy just stared from inside the ring. "What?"

"You're bleeding." Jay looked down at himself, not seeing any blood. "Head," Randy clarified, pointing to his own forehead. Jay touched his forehead and raised an eyebrow at the faint blood smear across his fingertips. Medical was going to kill him.

He limped up the ramp. Mark was right outside the entrance, talking to Rycklon. They both stopped as Jay shouldered past them, Mark tossing out an apology and telling Jay he had a free shot next time they faced in the ring. Jay waved it off, for Jay's injuries weren't Mark's fault. Injuries were unavoidable in the business. Medical berated him and bound his ribs as a precaution, warning him to ice his bruises and his knee and watch his pectoral muscles. One medic, a pretty, dark-skinned woman, cleaned out his forehead wound and slapped a little band-aid on it. He grinned at her and she looked away, a playful moue to her lips.

"Can I get a name?"

"Take your pills," she said, putting two white tablets in his palm and handing him a paper cup.

"C'mon," he wheedled, "At least your first name, please."

She rolled her eyes, but the tiny smile curling her lips betrayed her annoyance. "Renee."

"See you around, Renee." Downing his pills and water, he sent her another grin and hopped off the examination cot. Harmless flirtation warmed the cockles of his heart. On his way to his dressing room, he grabbed a clean towel and slung it over his shoulders. Now was the time to relax, pop a few ice packs, and watch Bryan and Chavo face off on the live feed in the general area.

Twisting off the top of a water bottle, he chugged half of it in one go. It could have been worse. He didn't have a concussion or internal bleeding. All good points. He punched two ice packs and arranged them on the bench to do the best job when he reclined.

Just as he was getting relaxed, a voice had him cursing. "Didn't scramble yer brains up, did I?" Jay struggled into a sitting position, clutching his tender side.

"No more than usual," he said blithely, gesturing for the Irishman to sit if he wanted to. His was a false calm that threatened to strangle him; could it be that Stephen just wanted to talk or did something sinister lurk around the corner? Damn, he was fucking paranoid tonight. He'd play this by ear; if anything weird happened, he would file a complaint with the Company.

After all, bruises faded, but a harassment charge stayed on record forever.

Stephen sat down and started fiddling with one of the unused ice packs. "Still, sorry about the whole…y'know, thing. That happened prior to the match." He started off sheepish and his voice quickly petered out from there on in. Combined with his accent, Jay had a hard time figuring how what the hell he was trying to say. Needless to say, when he did understand, he could sympathize. A little.

Far be it for him to criticize Stephen's behavior in the locker room prior to their match; he lost himself in Christian as well. Still, his character wasn't billed as a hot-tempered psychopath. _That_ was just fucked up. "'S fine, man. Just don't do it again." Jay extended the rhetorical olive branch of peace, too beat to give a damn.

Stephen grabbed the branch with a grin and nodded. "Pint of beer after?"

"Your treat." The other wrestler left, leaving Jay staring at the TV unblinkingly. He watched the rest of the matches apathetically. The only interesting note was that Sin Cara saved Bryan from Chavo. He had been lying to Adam about Luis Ignascio and Danielson dating, but WWE's storyline for them was just feeding into his suspicions about the luchador and the American Dragon. He'd have to ply the vegan with alcohol one of these days to get the full story.

He wanted desperately to call it a night and head out, but he had a few more obligations to fulfill. Groaning, he trudged to his dressing room to grab his Peep Show shirt and smoothed it over the abdomen brace. He snagged another water bottle from catering and sought out Orton.

His first stop was the man's dressing room. He knocked on the door and tried the knob after a moment or two. It turned easily, which surprised Jay. "Orton?" After receiving no answer, he tentatively opened the door and poked his head in, catching the tail-end of a clearly private conversation.

"Be nice for Mommy, Sweetheart. I love you, too. I'll see you soon. Yeah, I will. Love you." Orton ended the phone call and rounded on Jay. However, not even his fierce "what?" could dispel the candid fatherhood moment Jay had witnessed. The Viper had a heart underneath all that macho bravado. Who knew?

"We're up in a bit."

"I know that," Randy snapped.

Not as fond of an irate Orton as he was of his own skin, Jay hovered near the door and kept in mind that chairs were great last minute weapons. "Keep to the script this time, Orton. Your ad-libs are getting obnoxious." Having accomplished what he set out to do, he left. Fled. Whatever.

He stayed in his room until a PA came in to remind him to wait in the wings in five minutes. He wasn't hiding or avoiding conflict or whatever professional term his psychologist used last time, he was preparing. That was what serious wrestling entertainers did before a match or, in his particular case, a rescue.

"You're on in five, Mr. Reso. Is everything all right with your head?"

Jay nodded at the passing PA and walked out to screams. He lingered at the entrance, stretching out his arms, rubbing his chin, and dispassionately accessing the activity out on the mat. Randy was getting his ass kicked by both Sheamus and Mark Henry, and Christian waited for the opportune moment. He sprinted down the ramp and dived into the ring, leading Sheamus away from the corner with a flurry of punches. Sheamus rolled off the mat, and Christian, widening his stance in case of retribution, watched Randy put Mark away. Once the danger passed, he eased up, loose-limbed.

Orton whirled around and huffed. The yells for 'RKOs' reached a fevered pitch as he lunged forward. "What was that?" he bellowed. Christian backed away step, flashing his signature "who-me?" grin. Randy followed his movement and slapped Christian away.

Okay, the Viper wanted to play rough, did he? Christian retreated, rubbing away the sting in his chest and putting his hands on his hips. "What was that? That was me saving your ass," he taunted. "Just returning the favor. Calm down, man." Christian wasn't suicidal nor was he stupid; he kept his eyes on Orton's tightly coiled frame.

Someone, Sheamus, ploughed into him, bowling him over and taking the chance to curb-stomp the hell out of him. His brace absorbed most of the blows, and for that, he was grateful. He crawled away and hung defeated from the ropes, a fat, juicy rabbit dangling in its pathetic death throes. Sheamus took the bait and charged at him and using the Irishman's momentum against him, Christian vaulted the man clear across the ropes.

Exhilarated, he circled around only to see Randy over Mark Henry's head. Fuck! Christian shored up and kicked the World's Strongest Man in the stomach, celebrating as Randy's RKO connected. Mark went down—lights out. Game over. Everything went off without a hitch, mostly, and Corpus Christi got a great show. Jay was feeling good about—

What…the…fuck was Randy doing? The Viper had just leaped up and touched his toes like a goddamned cheerleader. Jay's mouth hung open in disbelief and a quick glance to the referee revealed the same expression. If he weren't so mortified, he would have broken character and fell over, cracking up. He lost the title to this man? Seriously?

In an effort to keep a straight face, Jay rubbed the back of his neck and peered down at the fallen Mark. He didn't pull his kick in all the excitement, and the man received his full boot in the abdomen. Before he could break character and reach for the man, he turned to face Randy, who was cracking his neck and acting up for the cameras. This—the celebration, the cheese, the fucking _toe-touch_—made no sense. Jay's brain could not cope with a fatherly Orton and a funny one in the same day.

Maybe Randy sustained a brain injury during the match or something. "You okay? You good?" he asked, desperate to understand why the hell Randy was breaking character. The other man didn't answer and just extended his hand for a shake. Leery, Jay shook the proffered hand and Randy pulled him in. If Randy hugged him again, kayfabe or not, Jay was going to slug him, but Randy just clapped him on his shoulder and broke their handshake to grab his—_Christian's_—World Heavyweight title from the ref.

"See you Sunday at Over the Limit. You and me, Christian." Randy heaved up the belt; pointed to Christian and then himself.

Jay dragged his eyes away from the belt long enough to respond. "You bet. Wouldn't miss it for the world."

/

He had Medical take off his brace. The damn thing was too cumbersome for him to do it, and he wasn't leaving the stadium without taking a much-deserved shower. One of the medics made him take some more acetaminophen pills and gauged his response time, clearing him with a warning. He hobbled straight to the showers, shedding his ring attire in short, achy bursts of energy he didn't have, and stepped into the warm shower spray.

He laid his throbbing head on the cool title, nearly groaning as the water hit the knots in his back and sluiced down his bruised sides. He could have stayed there forever. Regretfully, he cut off the cooling water and pulled out a towel from one of the bins to wrap around his waist. Once he got back to his hotel room, nothing, come Hell or high water, would stop him from trying out the Jacuzzi settings in his tub. Nothing.

By the time he was dressed in street attire, the stadium was empty. Hitching his duffle bag up, he did a onceover to make sure he or another wrestler didn't leave anything, literally running into Randy Orton.

He bounced off the man, staggering. "What are you doing here?"

Randy wiggled the ice pack in his hand and reapplied to his shoulder. "Mark Henry," he said in way of explanation. Jay winced; he had seen the man's big fingers digging into the rotating cuff of Orton's shoulder and even from where he was standing, it looked like it hurt like a bitch. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Jay shrugged. "Last one out, I guess. Shit," he said under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing, I…" Jay rummaged through his bags looking for his phone. It had to be somewhere. When he fished out the device from the bottom of his personal bag, he noticed he had one new voice message from Denise. He beamed, excited to hear her voice after these rough few months. His happiness was short-lived, however, and towards the end of the message, the smile had completely slipped from his face.

"What's wrong?"

Jay stared blankly at his phone. "She's leaving me." Four little words and his world as he knew it had ended. Four _stupid_ harmless words that were meaningless until put together, and he could no longer function. "She's leaving me."

It was to be a trial separation only. He had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that afterward, they could go back all the more stronger for it. Why did she want a divorce? She had been there for the highs and the lows; the triumphs and tribulations. He did everything he possibly could; hell, he quit the WWE for her once! They were supposed to grow old together; they've been trying for a kid for the past year and a half. They had names picked out already. This couldn't be happening. This shouldn't be happening! Why was this happening? Oh God, Denise was leaving him. For good this time.

Chin wobbling with the effort to curb his emotions, he covered his face with his hands. He needed to leave; he had to get out of here.

Arms enveloped him. He curled his hands into Randy's button down, wanting to shove him away or punch him until his knuckles bled and he could no longer feel a thing. Instead, in his human weakness, he found himself latching onto the Apex Predator and soaking up spare comfort like a needy sponge.

"Oh, God. I don't know what to do. I just…I don't. I can't." Why did it have to come to this? He couldn't even fly out and demand why in person. If he dared to miss the fight this Sunday, he could kiss the WWE and its higher purses goodbye.

"What can I do?"

Great, pity from his rival. It was bad enough that he was so close to tears, but Randy being nice to him was ridiculous. He fought out of Randy's grip and squared up for a brawl, the heady rush of adrenaline roaring in his ears and replacing the emptiness for only a moment. The moment, the anger, was all too brief. His shoulders sagged. Nothing good could come from hitting Randy. Nothing at all. He was defeated before he even could defend himself. "Just…Just leave me alone, Randy. Leave me alone. Please." Jay had learned from his mistake the last time Randy comforted him; they were not going to go down _that _road again.

For the first time, Randy did what was asked and backed off from confrontation, grabbing his bags and turning away. He didn't even put up a customary argument. Jay would be lying if the sight of Randy walking away from him filled him with something other than a crushing disappointment. A bundle of raw nerves, he could barely punch in the numbers for a cab to take him back. He kept it together until he stepped into his empty, cold hotel room, and he ran a hand through his hair, gripping the back of his head and rocking back and forth. Unbidden, a few tears slid down his face as he chewed the inside of his cheek to ribbons to keep from screaming. What the hell was he going to do now?

**Author's Note 2**: SO. MUCH. ANGST! Hey, it was bound to happen and I wanted to get the Denise angle moving along. I love my readers so much that I made you guys a little something. Sorry it's a little rushed:

snarkcasm. livejournal. com/ 25942. html # cutid1


	4. Chapter 4

**Rating**: Teen, there's a few swear words; Christian won't stop swearing, the potty mouth. Also pre-slash eventually turning into slash.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Jay's struggling with losing his belt and a Viper he cannot shake. Eventual Randy/Jay, Jay POV.  
><strong>Warning(s)<strong>: This is a blend of kayfabe and (totally make-believe) real life. I use the wrestlers' real names and the character names when appropriate, like during ring segments. This is about Christian and Randy's current dance-around. Honestly, with all the eyesex they do, they should just get a room already. Trufax. Unbeta'd.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I do not own any rights to the WWE or the wrestlers mentioned in the story. This is a story of fiction and I make no money from it.  
><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Listening to "Landing in London" by 3 Doors Down really helped with the Jay angst. I highly suggest it for either of the boys, really :) I just noticed that most of my chapters deal with exercise and eating. Wtf, self? Also, American Independence day weekend was a blast, this chapter has too much talking, and I don't know German, ta! I want to give a big thank you to all my reviewers and potential Christian/Randy writers out there!

**Room to Breathe, Chapter Four**

He spent the next few days in a stupor. He couldn't sleep, he barely ate, and he refused to leave his room. He exercised until he passed out and when he woke up, he exercised again all in the futile effort not to think about Denise. His impending divorce haunted him at all moments. Stiff, he crawled out of bed and clutched his screaming back. He checked his phone for messages—four voice mails from Adam, one from Charissa, and several texts from his friends—and erased them all, frowning. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to someone.

He limped to the bathroom and had to brace himself on the lip on the tub to edge into the damn thing. Standing up for a shower became too much of a Herculean task and, defeated, he crumbled into a heap. _God dammit_, he thought as the back of his head thudded against the wall. Water continued to pelt him, plastering his hair to his skull. He couldn't even muster the strength to soap up or crawl out the tub and just stayed there until the water cooled, and he was forced to get out or face hypothermia.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he grabbed another to wipe down his hair and stepped into his cool room. He shivered, water and goose bumps beading down his torso in equal measure. His phone rang, and he picked it up out of long ingrained habit, cursing himself when Charissa's voice carried over the line.

"Jay, where have you been? We've been trying to get in touch with you for days! Is everything all right? Are you and Denise getting a divorce? For real? I thought you guys were just separating for now."

"Charissa," he shouted, holding his phone away to get away from her rapid questions. When the woman got on a roll, she got on a _roll_. Hol-ee shit.

"Yeah?" She sounded startled and for good reason. Jay rarely raised his voice outside of the ring.

"I have a headache."

"Sorry. How are you taking it?" Her voice gentled. Sympathy, was there anything worse in the world?

"Not too good," he admitted, "It's a big shock to me, and I'm still processing it." He couldn't even say 'divorce' to his best friend's girl. No, he wasn't taking it well at all.

"Can't you go and talk to her? I'm sure they'll let you go if it's a family issue, right?"

"Not for pay-per-views. They'd fire me on the spot or sue me under breach of contract."

"They can _do_that? For real?" Through the white noise, he could hear her voice and a deeper one, probably Adam, before she came back to the mouth piece with an incredulous "holy shit". "Adam wants to talk to you, hun," she said regretfully and there was more static as the phone exchanged hands.

"Jay, man, this sucks." Adam always had a talent for understatement. What Jay wanted to know was how Adam found out about his divorce, so he asked him and the answer wasn't that surprising. "From Denise. We called her when you didn't answer our texts for a day."

"Did…did she tell you why?" His voice was quiet and he was ashamed to admit that his voice cracked.

"No," Adam replied, knowing just what Jay wanted answered, his voice just as subdued. "There's still hope, Jay. She hasn't filed and you didn't sign any papers yet, right?" Hope fluttered in Jay's chest, beating incessantly against his breast bone. He was almost too afraid to answer the question for fear that the fragile hope would shatter. "How are you doing, though?"

"'M fine."

"You're not."

"I'm not." Jay rubbed at the pink, puckered flesh near his armpit—his pectoral surgery scar. He overdid it with the exercising again, and his pectoral muscles ached.

"Over-exercising again?" Jay held out the phone in disbelief. How in the hell did Adam know that? "You always do whenever you're stressed. I know because I had to lug your ass around the next day."

Adam was apparently a mind reader. "I'm fine, Mom." He grimaced at his reflection in the mirror, the toll of his sleepless nights splashed across the reflective surface. His bags had bags, and the lines around his mouth and eyes could best be described as furrows.

"Speaking of moms, did you tell your parents about this?"

"Hell no. And I'm not going to until we fix this or I have to sign the papers. No telling Judy either, Adam, or I'm kicking your ass."

"You do realize that when my mother finds out we held this from her, an ass-kicking would be the least of our worries, right?" Jay shuddered; for such a gentle-mannered woman, Judy could put the fear of God into an ex-convict. He did not envy whoever got to tell her about him and Denise.

"How was your match?" Adam continued.

"You know I can't tell you what went on." Truth be told, it didn't really matter what Jay refused to say. If Adam really wanted to know what happened, he could just go online. SmackDown was notorious for spoilers since it wasn't live like Raw.

"Okay, okay. Tell me this—did you lock yourself in your room?"

"How the _hell_did you know that?" Jay had been kidding when he thought Adam was a mind reader, but that was ridiculously close to the truth.

"Randy told me. Something about you shutting yourself up for days."

Jay's hands curled into a tight fist, skin stretching bloodlessly over his knuckles. "I'm going to kill him."

"Dude, chill, willya? It's no big deal, I texted him because someone wouldn't answer his damn phone."

Adam couldn't reach him and the man's first instinct was to call Randy? He bit his lip to stem his rising anger. _Adam didn't know about Randy_, he kept reminding himself and took a deep breath to calm himself down. Adam would never know if Jay could help it. They continued the conversation with Jay skillfully redirecting any and all questions dealing with his divorce or the clusterfuck with Randy. He asked about Sam, his black and white Angora cat he had to leave behind while he was touring, and Charissa filled him in. Apparently, Sam was not happy with Adam's dogs and would incite fights with the smaller ones. And, yes, a cat rugby-tackling a dog was a must-see, once-in-a-lifetime experience. He talked to the both of them as he pulled up his pants, but he had to say goodbye when someone knocked on his door.

Grabbing a tee-shirt, he tugged it over his head and made sure he looked through the fisheye before he opened the door. He grinned tiredly. "Hey, Bryan, come on in." He surveyed his room, wishing he had some time to clean or something. He cleared off one of the beds. "What brings you here?"

The American lifted up a four-pack of beer, a brand of which Jay wasn't familiar but accepted anyway. Beer was beer in his opinion, and alcohol was too great a temptation to resist. He rarely got to indulge after all. They sat, him drinking the beers, Bryan his water, and shooting the breeze. Bryan asked superficial questions, didn't get annoyed if Jay didn't answer, and had some interesting stories—it was awesome and just what Jay needed to calm down after his emotional wringer. To work off the beer, they wrestled at a nearby gym. No submissions, no finishers, no real competition. It was great.

Jay found him smiling for the first time in days as he bounced off the ropes and charged at Bryan who just vaulted over him. They grappled for a bit—Jay winning the first one, Bryan the second—before Jay laid Bryan flat on his back. Pumping his fists in the air, he jogged around the ring celebrating his 'victory'. His body was still so sore from the abuse he had put it through, and after a while, he had to beg off wrestling. He sat on the sidelines, icing up his pec while Bryan jumped rope.

When both of their stomachs started rumbling, Bryan dragged him to this little vegan bistro hole-in-the-wall. Jay didn't know what he was more surprised about: a vegan café in Texas or the fact that Bryan apparently had a vegan GPS somewhere in that mop of hair. He had no idea what was good, so he let Bryan order for the both of them. They made a little deal. If Jay didn't like whatever Bryan ordered, Bryan would have to eat it while Jay grabbed a juicy hamburger guilt-free. Surprisingly, it didn't come to that; Jay actually liked his food.

Bryan was unbearably smug when they left the restaurant. Jay made a face at him and jostled the other man's shoulder. Hanging out with Bryan was a saving grace; he could effectively not think about Denise for the first time in days. He still felt the pain beating a constant tattoo against his ribcage, but the urge to crawl into a corner and wait for the end was less immediate.

"Are you looking forward to this Sunday?"

With all the personal drama he was going through at the moment, Jay had almost forgotten that he only had a few days to hook up with Creative and get his sorry ass ready for his PPV rematch with Orton. He rubbed his neck and shrugged in answer to Bryan's question. Right now, in the state he was in, he couldn't tell his ass from his elbow. How in the hell was he going to beat the Viper?

"Should be an interesting match," Bryan continued. "Can't wait to see it."

For all his doubts, Jay couldn't wait to see how the match played out either. Randy was an impressive wrestler, and PPVs were notoriously under-scripted. The only thing actually scripted was who won and how. Jay already knew how his match was going to play out. Orton was going to win with an RKO; he was the company's golden boy after all. Even though he knew that, Jay would do everything in his power to make this match spectacular and stay high on the Contenders list. That belt was _his_, and he refused to drop to mid-card.

When did wrestling become his whole life again? He sat there, scrambling to remember when he last had a heart-to-heart talk with Denise. He came up empty. Stunned at his revelation, he didn't hear Bryan's speak until the man poked him in the arm.

"Your phone's ringing," Bryan pointed out with a concerned look on his face. "Is everything all right?"

Jay reached into his pocket and waved away Bryan's concern as he answered his phone. "Hello, this is Jay."

"Hey, Jason," the chipper voice of his writer unnerved him. Marc Phelps was a good guy and fun to work with, but Jay didn't fancy talking business with the man right now. "I was goin' through all this feud stuff between Christian and Randy with Rich, and we were wondering if you'd mind coming to meet us before 'Over the Limit'. When are you coming up to Seattle?"

"Tomorrow. My flight leaves…mid-afternoon? I'll have to check my ticket. I'll get back to you on it though, okay Marc?"

"That's fine, Jason. Call me as soon as you know. The faster we get everything squared away, the better. Creative's been riding me for the past day to get a hold of you." Jay felt a small pang of irrational guilt, as if he were a scolded child instead of a grown man going through a divorce. He picked at his pinky nail as Marc babbled on and on about how great the feud was shaping up to be.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jay could see the sympathetic looks Bryan was shooting him. He quickly ended the conversation with Marc and put his phone back, slapping his knees and getting up. "Well, that was fun."

Bryan scooted off the bench as well. "Creative's bothering you too?" He clapped Jay on the shoulder. "Could be worse, I guess." They started off for the hotel, side by side.

Jay shoved his hands into his pockets. "How'dya figure?"

Bryan pursed his lips in thought. "They could be in town and hunting you down as we speak. Or a meteor could come crashing to Earth, destroying all life in a fiery explosion. There's always that." Startled at Bryan's strangeness, Jay burst into laughter. They joked some more about what could be worse than the WWE's creative team until they stopped at Jay's doorstep.

He grabbed Bryan's shoulder and shook it. "Look, I've been having a shitty couple of days and I just…Thanks, man."

"No problem. Any time." Bryan shot him a smile and left.

Jay stared at the phone clenched in his fist. He knew what he had to do, but he was dreading it. Naturally, he procrastinated—checked his tickets, called Marc back, picked up his room for tomorrow; combed the web for weird pictures with which to spam Adam—but soon he ran out of things to do. Once again, he was left staring at his phone. He quickly dialed before he lost his nerve and put the phone to his ear.

"You're actually calling me?"

_What was I thinking?_ he berated himself for contacting the asshole. "Yes, I am. Did you text Adam?"

"He texted me. He was worried—"

"Don't feed me that bullshit, Orton. Just stay out of my personal life from now on."

"So this is why you decided to waste my time? You couldn't even talk to me face-to-face, Reso?"

"Do I need to? Back off, Randy. I can do this on my own."

"You shouldn't have to!"

Jay froze. Just what in the hell was Randy playing at? Emotion battering him from all sides, he ended the phone call. His phone slipped from nerveless fingers.

He didn't sleep a wink that night.

/

As soon as he stepped off the plane, bleary-eyed and scowling at the sun's glare, he called Marc and set up the meeting with him and Randy's writer. He had no doubts that Randy would be there, and that was just something the former Heavyweight champion would have to face.

He tried to call Denise and didn't receive an answer. He left a carefully-worded message on their home answering machine, asking her to please call him back. He kept his tone warm, refrained from any personal attacks, and ended the message before he could break down pleading. The Business was full of those who botched up their relationships and went through about it the wrong way: threatening their significant others, cheating, being hostile to press; breaking down. It came with the territory of such a high-pressure lifestyle.

Denise didn't deserve to have people in her face bothering her, or a husband who would turn on her in a blink of an eye. He still loved her, would always love her, and because of that, he respected her decision. If she wanted to go through the divorce, he would gladly sign the papers. He just wanted to know why. He deserved that at least.

He picked up his rental car and decided to go to the stadium early. The receptionists helped him find the exact conference room. He settled down and waited for the others, more high strung than he'd like to admit. Marc and Rich arrived at the same time, both carrying briefcases and laptops. Marc, stout with perpetually red cheeks, walrus-like whiskers, and a permanent smile, was one of the best feud writers the WWE had. Jay grinned him in return. If he was going to turn Heel, he definitely wanted Marc by his side.

His smile, brought on by his writer's cheeriness, slipped the moment Randy Orton stepped through the door looking well-rested in his casual slacks and button down. Almost reflexively, Jay glanced down at his own rumpled tee-shirt and jeans before starting a staring contest with the shiny conference table.

He felt more than saw the Viper sit down next to him. Jay stiffened; out of all the empty seats available, Randy decided to plop his ass next to him?

"Okay, cats, let's get this party started," Rich said, rubbing his dry hands together. He was Randy's assigned writer, a tall, gawky middle-aged man with long brown hair slightly thinning at the top. Despite his awkward appearance, Richard Gold had a knack for keeping to a wrestler's character. "Now, at 'Over the Limit', as soon as Randy-boy here drops the RKO, Christian will be out for the count. Sorry, Jay-Jay, but that's just how it rolls. Now, the guys upstairs want to bring in a few elements, specifically Christian's spear and Randy's punt."

"But he's still a Face," Randy protested, taking the words right out of Jay's mouth.

"Exactly, exactly," Mike continued the conversation, "We want to bring both of your popular Heel moves back to SmackDown. Christian's going to have more backroom segments that we will hammer out as well as the spear he adopted from Edge. Randy will have more inner ring segments and we're bringing back the punt. We just need to establish them during 'OtL', boys. Randy will counter Christian's spear and land his punt. The crowd will love it."

Rich adjusted the small, rose-tinted glasses perched on his wide, beaky nose. "How we see it is like this—Christian is in a transitional period, yeah? He's a Face, but the corruption at WWE is slowly turning him Heel, man. Now, it's not gonna be like R-Truth and Cena's feud or anything. Don't worry. Mark Henry and Sheamus will play a big part of this feud as well, Sheamus specifically. We have a different storyline brewing for the World's Strongest Man." He went on to cover a good chunk of their feud and even though Rich's Californian drawl was a bit much at times, Jay listened carefully.

It all boiled down to this: he was losing his Number One Contender spot to Sheamus. In a lovely little twist, he was going to referee Sheamus and Randy's fight and turn completely Heel in the process. Rich and Marc were hammering out the scripts, nasally Californian and molasses-sweet Southern drawls clamoring over each other inharmoniously, as Jay numbly sat there.

A light touch on the small of his back shocked him at the intimacy, and he jumped, glaring at the man beside him. "What are you doing, you ass?" He asked in a low growl, speaking out of the corner of his mouth.

Randy didn't say anything, just leaned back into his chair and refused to pull his hand away. The heat from the light touch had burned a proprietary brand into Jay's skin, and he was not having it. Licking his lips in frustration, Jay scooted away like a shy virgin on prom night.

"Something the matter, Jay-Jay?" Jay had to force himself from leaping over the table. No matter how PR spun it, strangling a prime writer with his own Day-Glo orange tie was never a good thing. Even so, he refused to be held accountable for his actions if Rich kept using that ridiculous nickname.

"No. It's just jet lag. I'm fine."

Marc and Rich shared a look. "Well, if you need time to recuperate, Jason, you can leave. In fact, you both can leave. We don't need you boys anymore. We'll just send you the tentative scripts via email and just email us back if you want to make a suggestion and we'll take it into consideration," Marc offered diplomatically.

He could see an out when it was presented to him. Saying his goodbyes, Jay left the building and slid on his sunglasses in defensive of the dying sun. He just opened the door to his Hybrid when a shadow fell over him and he paused.

"I meant what I said about you going through this alone," Randy spoke up from behind. Squaring his shoulders, Jay turned to face him. Randy was too fucking close, effectively trapping Jay between his body and the car.

Jay crossed his arms, muscles bunching in flight-or-fight mode. "I'm not alone, Randy. I actually have friends. Crazy, I know. But, I have them."

"Do they know about us?"

"No one knows about us…and no one ever will. Ever. Go back to your wife and kid, Randy, and leave my life alone."

They stood there for who-knows-how long, stone-faced and unflappable until Randy's heavy, scrutinizing stare had Jay fidgeting. With an infuriatingly haughty smirk, Randy left. Jay rolled his eyes at the melodrama his life had become and tried to reach Denise again, this time on her cell phone.

"Denise, it's me, Jay. I…call me when you get this. I just want to talk, okay? Ich liebe dich. Ich vermisse dich." He mumbled through unsure German as if he had rocks in his mouth, but he wanted to prove to her that he was trying. With a gusty sigh, he disconnected the call and took a moment to collect himself before he got into his car and sped away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author**: Snarkcasm  
><strong>Rating<strong>: Teen, there's a few swear words; Christian won't stop swearing, the potty mouth. Also pre-slash eventually turning into slash.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Jay's struggling with losing his belt and a Viper he cannot shake. Eventual Randy/Jay, Jay POV.  
><strong>Warning(s)<strong>: This is a blend of kayfabe and (totally make-believe) real life. I use the wrestlers' real names and the character names when appropriate, like during ring segments. This is about Christian and Randy's current dance-around. Honestly, with all the eyesex they do, they should just get a room already. Trufax. Unbeta'd.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I do not own any rights to the WWE or the wrestlers mentioned in the story. This is a story of fiction and I make no money from it.  
><strong>Author's Note<strong>: The last chapter was very filler-y. Sorry about that folks. And **so** sorry this took forever. :) I seriously apologize for the wait; I just had some family business. But, good news! I'm thinking up another Christian/Randy story...AU this time! Enjoy the chapter.

**Room to Breathe, Chapter Five**

Jay laid there on the mat, stunned, as Orton's theme song blared through the speakers. This wasn't over; it couldn't be. What if his fight wasn't what the Brass was looking for and he didn't get another shot? He could have done better with more time, dammit! The referee knelt by him and kept asking him if he was all right. Of course he wasn't all right. He blew his chance. He struggled into a sitting position, rapidly blinked away the sweat from his eyes, and scrubbed at his forehead. If he could just learn how to breathe again everything would be—

Orton was helping him to his feet. What universe did Jay enter where that just happened? He staggered to his feet and pushed the other man away. He didn't want nor need Orton's help, fuck you very much.

"Come on." Jay stopped on the apron, wounded pride gathered in tatters at his feet. Exhaling the last of his shame, he swooped back under the ropes gingerly and walked back to the man who successfully defended his title. He did the proper things; he congratulated Randy and shook his hand, refusing to dwell on the title belt so temptingly near. Further and further he could feel the belt slipping from him. How much further could he be pushed? He already knew the answer: he could take anything for one more shot at his belt. He gave short, noncommittal answers to Orton's questions about his well-being before he left the arena to an encore of the Viper's theme song.

He drifted backstage, mechanically responding to the praise from the other Superstars on a great match with platitudes. Someone else, some higher power perhaps, pulled on his puppet strings because he sure in hell wasn't in control. His mouth moved, his limbs touched, but he felt nothing aside from a low buzz in his gut.

He gathered up his things and begged off the celebratory drinks. Óscar had stopped him to ask why—the man behind the mask was always looking after the other guys on the roster—and Jay made something up about mixing painkillers with a night out. That got the other guys off his back rather quickly. Bryan stayed behind though, and it took the very real promise of Jay kicking his ass to make American leave, scrambling to join the boys for a night on the town.

Jay passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

/

Oh. Ow. _Fuuuuuck_! It had been two days—two long, agonizingly boring days—of recuperation and already he was climbing the walls. He was to stay in his room until he was cleared. No sight-seeing, no partying; he couldn't even go down to the hotel pool and swim. In addition, exercise was strictly verboten. He didn't blame the trainers or his chiropractor for the exile; when he got a hold of the 'Over the Limit' taping, he was surprised he was cooped up just for a few days.

It was hard to explain, especially in interviews, but when he was in the moment, he barely felt anything. Adrenaline coursed through his body; he was invincible. Yes, he had to live with the effects of his bodily punishments, but it was the life he chose. He took the damage with an infectious grin and came hobbling back for more. He couldn't even begin to list the injuries to his back from all the TLC matches and high-flying risks. If he could go back, would he do the same damn things? In a heartbeat.

He broke another icepack and he clumsily fixed it to his lower back with an extra Ace bandage. When he received the DVD from Marc, he sat on the edge of his bed in shock. That was him screaming—bellowing like a dying animal? He had remembered Randy lifting his legs up in a totally unexpected inverse Boston Crab but nothing during or much afterward. He winced, self-sympathetic, as him-on-screen struggled blindly for the bottom rope, gripping the nylon with his teeth and keening in agony-relief as Orton dropped his legs. His right hip spasmed and he massaged the phantom pins-and-needles away. How the hell did he continue on after that?

He nearly stopped the tape for the sake of the peanuts that fell from his bedside table. However, not even honey-roasted goodness could stop him from what was on screen. In-ring, Jay had thought it odd that Orton didn't punt him like the script called for, but he was too busy pulling himself together to wonder what the hell the Viper was doing.

Lightly chewing on his bottom lip, he rewound the DVD. This PPV was supposed to be played straight; why the hell did Orton pause and back away from the punt? Jay knew Randy, unfortunately, and the man was as opportunistic as they come. The punt was golden for the fans. Besides that, Jay was as prepared for it as humanely possible. So why didn't the Viper strike when Christian was down for the count?

He shut off the TV and threw the remote at the other bed. Now wasn't the time to figure out whatever was a-brewing in Randy's walnut-sized brain. Tomorrow was freedom. He was finally being cleared to do something other than collect bed sores and eat junk food. Jay placed his laptop on his stomach for easier access, and his toes curled as his sore abs absorbed the heat.

His mom called, and they talked a bit. She happened to watch his PPV match, and she worried, naturally, about his back.

"I'm fine, Mom. I've been under house arrest for the past couple of days. I'm going to get screened by a chiropractor later on today. You don't have to worry, Mom."

"Of course I do. You're my youngest son, and I love you. I haven't heard from you in a while, so I don't know how you're doing, if you're okay or not. That's the worst feeling a mom could have."

"Are you guilt-tripping me?"

"I don't know, is it working?"

"A little." He felt like a teen caught out after curfew again.

"Good. Maybe you'd call more often. And quit pouting, William Jason Reso, you're a grown man."

His mom always had a knack for knowing exactly what he was doing, and it unnerved the hell out of him. Like a scolded child, his pout slunk off his face, and they talked some more. Denise didn't come up in conversation, and he knew it was cowardly, but Jay did his best to keep it that way. His family didn't believe in divorce, and he didn't want to disappoint them. There was still a tiny part of him that still believed they could work out their differences if only they could meet up somewhere and talk despite the lack of communication. "Bye, Mom. I love you."

"I love you, too, Jason. Stay safe, okay? I don't want you hurting yourself after that last injury. How's your pectoral?"

"It's fine. Hey, how's Dad?"

"Your father is trying to get out on the ice again. Almost broke his back the last time he attempted to play hockey. I have no idea what's wrong with him." She was clearly unimpressed with his father, and Jay couldn't blame her. Dad was one sports car away from a mid-life crisis. He said his goodbyes for good, and they hung up on each other.

He shot off a text to his sister, figuring that she would be the one most likely to complain if he talked to Mom and no one else. He glanced at the clock and shot up, cursing a blue streak. He was going to be late for his appointment. Tugging a pair of worn jeans over his boxers and shimmying out of his makeshift brace, he raced out the door.

"Lift up your arm. Keep your hip still, Mr. Reso. Okay, take a deep breath and exhale slowly."

Jay's exhale turned into a long, pained groan as Dr. Foster poked, prodded, and otherwise manhandled him in ways he hadn't even experienced in-ring.

"I have never seen such a crooked, messed up back in all my years. Congratulations."

"Thanks—uggh!—Doc." Would it kill the man to be gentle? He choked off a howl as Dr. Foster snapped his lower spine back in place. Where was the ref and was tapping out still an option? Forty-five minutes of torture later had him cleared for activity and hobbling, he climbed into his car, fingertips still tingling. Foster assured him that the pins 'n needles would go away as soon as he moved about, but Jay wasn't too keen with the good doctor at this moment.

At least the next show was in Spokane. If he had to sit in those hard, tiny airplane seats, there was no telling what he would do. At a stop light, he updated his Twitter for his peeps, congratulating Orton on his win, and checked his emails. Marc sent him a copy of his script, and his sister sent him a long, scathing email about how stupid he was for wrestling now that Adam was forced to retire. He deleted that immediately. He loved his sister, he did, but her mothering was smothering. Ever since she found out she was pregnant, her maternal hormones were off-the-charts crazy, giving her She-Hulkian levels of rage.

Lizzy had always been tough, though. While he was trying to copy wrestling moves in his backyard growing up and hanging off Josh like a jungle gym, she had been establishing Reso reign in the neighbor, dominating in all sports and making boys cry. If she wasn't currently battling with explosive morning sickness, he had no doubt she would hop on the next flight here and open up a can of whoopass in a heartbeat. His niece/nephew was going to get a huge present from Uncle Jay.

He resisted the urge to flip off whoever was laying on their horn and continued to the drive aimlessly around town. Seattle was beautiful when it wasn't pissing rain, and if there wasn't such a long line, he would have gone up the Needle. The view had to be breathlessly awe-inspiring. Maybe next time, he promised the looming structure before turning into the hotel's parking lot.

He spent the rest of the afternoon poolside to work on his HD tan, ignoring Paul and Heath who were horsing around. Admittedly, he took a little vindictive pleasure when the South African's 450 Splash off the diving board turned into a rather painful belly flop.

"Come on in, old man! The water's fine," Heath taunted from the edge, floppy orange hair glued to his forehead.

"Get out of here, you creepy little bastard." Jay packed up his things. He had soaked up enough sun for the day; he didn't believe in looking like burnished copper unlike _some_ Superstars. "Oh, by the way, here's a little word of advice for ya: stay away from the tanning beds. You're beginning to look like an overripe tomato, Miller."

/

Christian swaggered down the ramp to his theme music, all smiles, as Randy paced the ring with his Title over his shoulder. Before he slid between the ropes, he was handed a microphone, and with it, he approached the wary Champion.

"I don't want to come out here and spoil your moment, but I just had to say that Sunday was one of the greatest matches of my career—" Jay would be lying if he said that wasn't at least partially true. Randy without all the theatrics was a decent athlete and a challenge. However, having to come out here and say it to the man's face was soul-crushing. He would have rather walked through barbed wire and salt than be here in all honesty. Christian held out his hand and they shook. "Randy, you are the World Heavyweight Champion…and you deserve it."

"But-?" Randy trailed off skeptically, leaning forward.

Christian didn't disappoint. "But, Randy, even you have to admit on Sunday that match could have gone either way. The outcome could have gone either way, but you know what? It didn't. And you were the better man that night. You won," Christian took a step into Randy's personal space and Orton stiffened. Christian grinned lopsidedly. "But, Randy, I know I can beat you." Randy blew him off with a cool gaze, dismissing him completely. Christian continued, undaunted, "Which is why I'm out here because I'm here to issue a challenge for one more match for the World Heavyweight Championship." Arms wide, Christian addressed first the audience and then the Champion himself. "Hey, a guy can ask, right?"

Sheamus's music started up, and the man walked out, shaking his head in disbelief. Out of the corner of his eye, Christian saw Randy carefully set his mic and title on the mat, hunkering down in preparation.

"Christian," the Irishman began, walking down the ramp. Randy relaxed and Jay almost broke character to roll his eyes. "This is almost painful to watch." He went on about how pathetic and desperate Christian was and compared him to a gambling addict.

"What is he talkin' about?" Randy asked and Christian didn't have an answer, too busy trying not to be blinded by florescent flesh. Sheamus was in the ring now and only getting closer, bragging about being a two-time champion. Christian licked his lips in barely suppressed rage when Sheamus had the nerve to call him a two-time loser. And if Randy didn't stop prowling beside him like a fucking riled-up panther or something, Christian was going to dropkick him in the head.

Mark Henry came out to "interject some common sense" into the debate and all three men in the ring exchanged glances. Jay froze at Henry's Edge crack, still sensitive about his best friend's retirement, but his character's lopsided smirk stayed firmly in place, eyes locked on the World's Strongest Man.

On cue, Teddy Long "playa"-ed his way onto the scene to mix shit up. Again. A sneaky son-of-a-bitch, Long finagled a Triple Threat Match among the three challengers and strutted away with one last "holler". The Superstars glared at each other before leaving one by one-Christian being the last to leave the ring.

As soon as he got backstage, Jay took off his shirt and hunted down a water bottle. Black clothing plus extremely hot overhead lights weren't his idea of a fun time, after all. He picked up his script where he tossed it and settled down near the backstage announcing set-up. Matt was already there, grooming himself in a tiny mirror.

"Hey, Jay."

"Hey, Matt." The Superstar had an idea. The Brass wanted old Christian back? Well, they got him. "D'ya mind if we have a little fun with this?"

"You want to improvise?"

"Sure, why not? Just a little ad-libbing. SmackDown isn't live, so we have nothing to lose, right?" Faced with such a compelling argument, Matt had agreed, and they wasted one take out-doing each other before they got down to business. The promo went off without a hitch; all comedic bits were pitch-perfect—it reminded Jay of the old days.

There was only so much he could take out of watching others wrestle, and he stalked the blissfully empty locker room he shared with Bryan, Rycklon, Stephen, and Ignacio, psyching himself up for tonight's Main Event. The door creaked open, and Stephen shuffled in, lips moving and a battered script in hand. Jay pretended to read his own cues, wanting to ignore the man for as long as he was able.

"We never did go and have that beer, you know."

"Huh," Jay hummed, voice tight as he racked his brain for something blasé to say. Despite the other man's apology, Jay was still cagey around him; there was no way in hell he was going anywhere with him without another person present. "How about tonight after taping? We can go out with the rest of the roster for a night on the town. I'll make sure to pick the most expensive thing out there, and we'll call it even."

"Sure thing."

/

If there was a worse night than flailing around in the ring as Mark Henry did his damnedest to shake you like a ragdoll while under the heavy gaze of the Viper, Jay didn't believe in it. Despite it all, he managed to execute the Spear on Sheamus and drove into him hard, lifting up the heavy leg for the pin and praying that his strength held out for the rest of the match. Robinson was yelling at Randy for interfering in the match now, and Jay scooted up to link his hands together.

When Sheamus pushed out of it, Christian shouted at Robinson, stating over and over that he had the other wrestler down for well over three seconds. It was out of his hands, the ref had shouted back over the din. "What do you want me to do, huh?"

"I had him!" He knee-walked over, arms splayed out like a sacrifice. Christian thumped his chest several times earnestly. "I had him, ref! I clearly had him! Ring the bell!"

"It's outta my hands, Christian! The match will continue until someone wins."

Christian got to his feet and towered over the shorter man. "Seriously?" In anger, he turned and walked straight into Sheamus's big boot, losing his number one contender's spot in a three-count. Clutching his elbow, Christian watched in dismay as Randy climbed into the ring, hoisting up his belt in challenge for the newly-crowned contender.

Robinson came over, and they argued some more. Like a toddler going through a tantrum, Christian flung himself on the ropes for the Titantron, mouthing "c'mon" like a mantra. He stayed there until the stadium started emptying out and helped himself to his feet using the ropes.

"Need help?"

"Got it. Thanks, Charlie." The ref then asked him a couple of questions regarding his health. Other than the bruise forming on his chest from where Mark Henry stood on him and post-match fatigue, Jay was feeling better than he had in weeks. He climbed out of the ring, surprised to see Orton leaning against a nearby padded blockade.

"Good match."

Jay shifted, putting a hand on his hip. "I would say the same thing to you, but you didn't perform tonight."

Orton's upper lip twitched as he brought the title back in its rightful place on his shoulder. "Have to rest up for my title match next week, don't I?" Keeping his expression mockingly saccharine, Jay said nothing and continued climbing the ramp. He intended to fully enjoy himself tonight and nothing, not even Randy Freaking Orton, could ruin that for him.

/

Freshly showered and feeling on top of the world, Jay met up with some of the roster at a small pub down the street. He perched on cracked vinyl, tapping his toes on sticky tile and peanut shells to the beat of shitty music coming from a subpar stereo. This was the life. Nearby, Heath tried to get the Divas to play strip poker, but A.J. quickly ended that by drinking him under the table and shutting up the 'One-Man Rock Band' for good. Where she put all that alcohol in such a tiny body, Jay didn't want to know, but he was impressed.

He kept himself at a one-beer maximum, keeping the mug close to him and nursing off it whenever it looked like someone was going to offer him a drink. Stephen dragged him up for a match of darts while some of the wrestlers set up a table for some impromptu cards.

"Ohhh, we've got to hoooold on, ready or not. You live for the fight 'cuz that's all that you've got," Jay howled along to Bon Jovi's magnum opus, and Bryan hooked an arm around his neck, dragging him down to his level and plastering their cheeks together. Jay's nose wrinkled as the yeasty, bitter smell of too much beer wafted from the other man. He thought the vegan didn't drink and received his answer a while later as his shoulder brushed up against a gigantic wet spot on Bryan's flannel shirt.

"As a card-carrying Vegan, I have the moral duty and/or obligation to report any and all animal mistreatment. Now, who's skinning a cat over here?"

Three sheets to the wind himself, Stephen stumbled over to them, knocking into Jay and nearly making him stagger with the combined weight of the two wrestlers. "You smell like a brewery, Danielson."

"Your face," Bryan retorted intelligently. Out of nowhere, Luis popped up at Bryan's elbow and gently herded the man away, him speaking rapid-fire Spanish and Bryan answering with kindergarten-slow Spanglish.

"Tha' was entertainin'," Stephen said into Jay's neck, reminding the other man of their closeness. Jay shuddered and shoved the heavy wall of muscle away, propping him up near the dart board. Stephen gestured to him, and Jay approached cautiously.

"What do you want, Stephen? Should I call a cab or something?"

"Nah, I'm fine. This is nothin' compared ta back home. All of ya are lightweights!"

"I see. Do go on," Jay said sarcastically over the protesting bar patrons, wishing he could record Stephen's drunken ass for later blackmail without getting his head ripped off in the process.

"Feck, gotta piss." Jay groaned and, against his better judgment, helped the man wobble into the man's bathroom. Stephen shot for the stalls on rubbery legs, the sounds and smells of retching soon filling the small space.

Back turned, Jay crossed his arms and reminisced about the blissful days back when he didn't have to cart inebriated Irishmen off to the john. "I don't care what you say, Stephen, you can't handle your liquor worth a damn."

"Fuck you sideways, Captain Charisma!"


	6. Chapter 6

**Author**: Snarkcasm  
><strong>Rating<strong>: Teen, there's a few swear words; Christian won't stop swearing, the potty mouth. Also pre-slash eventually turning into slash.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Jay's struggling with losing his belt and a Viper he cannot shake. Eventual Randy/Jay, Jay POV.  
><strong>Warning(s)<strong>: This is a blend of kayfabe and (totally make-believe) real life. I use the wrestlers' real names and the character names when appropriate, like during ring segments. This is about Christian and Randy's current dance-around. Honestly, with all the eyesex they do, they should just get a room already. Trufax. Unbeta'd. I'm also struggling with not making every Superstar gay. It's a tough battle, you guys.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I do not own any rights to the WWE or the wrestlers mentioned in the story. This is a story of fiction and I make no money from it.  
><strong>Author's Note<strong>: I _**love**_ my reviewers. If I could respond to all of you, I totally would. I also appreciate the people who have this story favorite'd and on alert. It means so much that you all like this story that started as just a toe-dip into a new fandom. It's a little overwhelming, and I hope to keep on making you guys happy :) No Randy in this chapter, sorry about that.  
><strong>Side-note<strong>: what songs make you think of Christian/Randy or the individual wrestlers? I've been looking for inspiration and I want to know what y'all think!

**Room to Breathe, Chapter Six**

"If you're going to heave, do it in the bathroom." Eyes gummed with sleep and the distinct flavor of dead rodent settling on his tongue, Jay lolled his head somewhere towards the extra bed, wishing death upon all the chirping birds outside his window. Stephen groaned like a wounded beast and, stumbling, made his way to the bathroom just in time.

7:30 was too damn early to be alive, let alone be forced to hear someone violently throw up. Cursing everything under the sun, Jay rolled out of bed, got tangled in the sheets, and fell to the floor. To add insult to injury, his travel pillow must have hit the alarm button because the fucking thing wouldn't shut the hell up. He groped at the alarm clock ineffectually and gave up after the second swipe failed.

"What's that fuckin' noise?" Stephen's yell was muffled by the door and another bout of miserable-sounding retching. With a burst of energy he didn't know he possessed, Jay reached out and slapped the snooze button, affording the both of them at least fifteen minutes of quiet. He shimmied out of the sheets, feeling ridiculous as he struggled with the tenacious fabric.

By the time the bar had closed, Stephen decided that more whiskey would help with his stomach problems, and Jay was pressured into a few Car Bombs. They staggered back to the hotel, giggling like schoolgirls and falling on each other. Neither of them could puzzle out the elevator, and so they climbed up the stairs. Jay remembered tripping up once or twice and strong hands helping him to his feet. He couldn't quite recall why Stephen was in his room, or what led to the man staying the night, but he had a sneaky suspicious that UFC PPVs and the tiny bottles of Jack strewn about were the deciding factors. There might have been an argument over which sport, hockey or soccer/football, was clearly superior and some prank-calling.

He blamed Jack Daniels for any and all fuzziness.

A knock on his door had him scooping up a random tank top and pulling it on. On the way to answer the quite insistent knocks, he glimpsed at the mirror and bemoaned the lack of time to do something with his disheveled hair. "I'm coming!" He looked through the peep hole and opened the door, eyebrow raised. "G'morning?"

Heath Miller, eyes squinty and face less attractive as a result, barged right in.

"Come right in, make yourself at home." Jay's sarcasm was palpable.

Heath frowned sharply. "Y'all woke me up at 4 in the mornin', arguin' about some stupid sports team." His accent, difficult to distinguish when he talked normally, was just impossible to understand, and Jay gave up, making coffee in the tiny maker.

"And, what do you want me to do about it? The past is in the past, man. Let it go."

"I wanna 'pology, Reso and I ain't leavin' 'til I get it."

Stephen walked in rubbing his eyes, looking a mite better and decidedly less green around the edges. "Jay, you gotta extra toothbrush 'round here?"

"Sure, it's in my bag." Stephen made his way to the felled bag and rifled through it, but Jay kept his eyes trained on Heath. He definitely did not like the constipated expression on his former NXT mentee's face as he looked around the room. He had enough of the man's face in his space, and spinning Heath around, Jay pushed him towards the door. "Okay. I'm sorry, Miller. I—we were drunk and you happened to be the person we called. So, whatever mean words I called you or whatever, sorry. Now leave." With one last shove, he locked and dead-bolted the door, pressing his back against the cool wood and thumping his head against it.

"Why the long face?"

"I…nothing." There was something off about Heath, but Jay just couldn't put his finger on it. The coffee stopped percolating with a splutter, and he poured himself a cup. He handed another cup to Stephen like a gracious host. Hopefully, they could start feeling human again. "Put on a shirt, will you? You glow like a friggin' neon sign."

They continued to bicker over each other's skin colors as they drank their coffee and picked up the evidence of last night. Soon running out of things insulting to say, they switched to mocking their respective in-ring personas, mic skills, and anything else that came to mind. In the end, Jay smacked Stephen in the face with a pillow and declared himself the winner.

He had tossed the man out of his room to take a sorely-needed shower and relax. He loved the bar atmosphere, but smelling of Eau d'Barroom and stale sweat wasn't his idea of a good time. Dripping, towel slung over his shoulders, he stood in front of the bathroom sink and picked up a disposable razor. He didn't care what Creative wanted; he was getting rid of this irritating scruff for good.

As he wiped away the last of the shaving cream, he scrutinized his reflection. He had a hard time comprehending if his drawn features were a result of his hard partying last night or becoming older. He lightly touched the encroaching crows' feet and bit his lip. The WWE brand of wrestling wasn't pure sport; they _entertained_. He wasn't the first person to look himself in the mirror and find himself lacking, and ever since they switched to HD, he sure as hell wouldn't be the last. He considered himself one of the lucky ones; he never went through a body image crisis like some Superstars, but in all honesty, there had been a few close calls that Jay wasn't comfortable with sharing. Scraping a hand over the smooth skin of his jaw, he ran the cold water tap and splashed water on his face.

There was a right time and a wrong time to be maudlin, and Jay Reso barely had any time to think, let alone mope about something as trivial as growing older. His phone rang ("Hollaback Girls"—seriously, Adam?) and he cradled it between his shoulder and ear. He had been expecting this phone call for a couple of days now and was fairly surprised that she held out this long.

"Hey, Sis! How are you doing?"

"Don't 'hey, sis' me, Jay! And, I'm fine." Jay settled down and made himself comfortable, reaching for a bag of chips. He could tell by his sister's terse tone that this was not going to be an easy conversation for one of them—him. Sure enough, he was soon regaled with the joys of being pregnant and all the shitty changes that happen to a woman's body. By the time Liz had wrapped up her rant, he knew things that he never, ever wanted to know.

Oh, God, the next time he saw his mom face-to-face, he was going to give her a big hug and maybe buy her a spa package or that small, lakeside cottage she had been eyeing.

"…my bladder's the size of a pea and all I want to do is sleep but the minute I'm comfortable, she starts kicking away at my bladder like it's a goddamned football."

Something in her statement struck him as odd, and it took an embarrassing amount of time to figure out why. "You found out the sex?" Jay sat up, wondering when in the hell that happened and why he hadn't been informed.

"Yeah, we did. If you actually read my emails, you would have known that." It was not Jay's intention to remind Liz about his less-than-stellar track record in reading her emails. She exhaled gustily, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "I'm going to kick your ass" over soft rustling. "Say 'hi' to your niece, Jay."

Jay never claimed to be an emotional man, but as soon as Liz had said that, his vision grew a little misty. "Hey, you," he whispered, voice huskier through the lump in his throat. "I'm your Uncle Jay and I can't wait to meet you." A soft grunt had him gripping the phone anxiously. "Liz, is everything all right?" He panicked, grabbing his laptop and seeing if he could buy a flight ticket back home.

"Yeah, yeah, 'm fine," she said distractedly, "she just kicked, that's all."

Oh. _Oh_. His laugh was weak with relief and a tinge of familial pride. "Have you…have you picked out a name yet?"

"Yes. Craig and I decided to name her after someone we both care about…Christina Campbell."

Jay inhaled shakily, blinking rapidly. His throat had closed to the point of making speech difficult. "You're…I…" he stuttered. "I-I mean, are you sure?" Liz had never been the most supportive of his wrestling career, even as kids, and his injury last year gave her plenty of ammunition to use against him. Plus, she could get into a lot of trouble favoring one brother over the others. Having his niece named after him, his wrestling character more specifically, was…was an incredible feeling.

"You're damned right I'm sure, Jay. Now—are you crying?"

He vehemently denied her accusation mid-sniffle. Instead of being sympathetic or something human, Liz just crowed and demanded that her husband pay her fifty dollars for winning the bet. Jay listened on, wondering in which layer of Hell hating pregnant sisters would land him and debating on whether said layer of Hell would be worth it.

"I was serious about the name though, Jay. Craig actually suggested it." She paused before continuing in a softer voice. "Christina's due in the end of September. I really want you to be there." Hearing his sister terrified him; never had he heard her sound so vulnerable. Come hell or high water, he was going to be at his niece's birth. He promised her that he would be in the room with her, and after ending the conversation on a lighter note, he hung up and tossed his phone on the nightstand, covering his face with his hands and focusing on keeping himself breathing.

Shit, he was going to be the worst uncle ever.

/

Wells Fargo Arena in Des Moines, Iowa was just like all the arenas he had visited on his journeys: cavernous with little bits and pieces of the local culture scattered throughout. Hitching up his bag, Jay made his way back to the locker rooms and dropped off his ring gear in his assigned cubby. He had promised Bryan a grappling-style warm up of which ROH would be proud. His muscles were going to kill him afterwards, and he couldn't wait.

It was in the middle of a deadlock when Jay brought up the fact that his sister was naming her first child after his stage name. Bryan had congratulated him and twisted out of the hold, slamming Jay down on the mat; it was only Jay's agility that kept him out of a LeBell lock.

"Don't you think it's weird?" Jay asked as he applied some more pressure to the can opener in which he held Bryan's neck immobile. Bryan's right hand flailed about, latching onto the back of Jay's head, and with a twist of his hip, he brought the former Heavyweight champion down on the mat.

"Not really." Bryan huffed and wiped the sweat from his eyes. "I mean, it's flattering." Jay wrapped his legs around Bryan's free arm in a textbook arm bar but didn't twist the wrist. "And, it's not like you have a stage name like 'Big Show' or 'Gold Dust'. _That _would be weird."

Jay let go as soon as Bryan muscled out of his loose hold, getting to his feet and squaring off for another deadlock. It wasn't as if niece's name bothered him but rather, the person who suggested it. Craig and he never got on; Jay thought the man was a no-good, passive-aggressive asshole with control issues. He was puzzling out his hatred and suspicion of his brother-in-law while leaning back in a Cloverleaf he hadn't professionally done since TNA. In his anger, he wrenched back Bryan's leg further than planned.

"Ease up, Reso." Bryan's voice snapped him out of his fury, and he let go, sheepishly offering a hand to help Danielson up.

"Sorry, thinking."

"Yeah, I know it's difficult…especially since you don't do it often." The shorter man's grin took away the sting of his lame insult. Still, Jay knocked his shoulder into his on his way to grab a water bottle. As promised, his muscles were screaming at the end of their little match. It felt good; he felt ready to take on the world. He tilted the water bottle over his head, the shock of the cold water on heated skin leaving him breathless.

It was about quarter to four when Bryan suggested going out to eat. Jay picked out the restaurant this time: a nice, little Greek diner a bit far away with the greatest spinach pie this side of the Mediterranean. At least, it did according to his restaurant app.

Bryan pointed at him with a spoonful of fava bean soup. "Waiting for a text?"

Jay grunted, distracted, before looking down his phone. Denise still hadn't called him, but her divorce lawyer had no qualms about doing so. He was still no closer from discovering why she wanted out of their marriage, and he was losing hope. Shaking his head at Bryan's question, he tucked the phone away and pushed the last of his pasta around on the plate.

"Is something going on?"

"No."

"Really?"

"No," Jay reluctantly admitted. Knowing that Bryan wouldn't quit until he got an answer, Jay set down his silverware and ran a hand through his short, un-styled hair. "I'm…in the middle of getting a divorce."

"Shit, really?"

"Keep your voice down!"

Bryan fiddled with his coffee cup. "I'm sorry, man. Life on the road is tough." Bryan, a man who could barely see out one eye and hear out one ear, was the king of the undersell. Jay was already uncomfortable with talking about himself in public, but he squirmed when Bryan asked him if there was anything he could do to help.

"It's fine. Just…the less people know about this, the better." He didn't want the Roster to know about it; it was bad enough that Randy and now Bryan knew his personal business, but he refused to let Creative get a hold of this nugget and put it in a storyline like the sadistic bastards they were. His personal business would not become fodder for the Universe like Adam and Amy's debacle a few years back. Bryan nodded solemnly and mimed zipping his lip, throwing away the key. Jay lashed out with his leg and caught the other man's ankle. Bryan retaliated by tossing his straw wrapper at Jay's face.

"How are your socials going? Have you had any ever since your…you found out?"

"No. I have one coming up at a PetCo two shows from now, though." Jay didn't even want to think about going on his social obligations. Between his impending divorce and his sister's pregnancy—not to mention the tension with Randy—he wasn't up for being "Christian" for the fans. He was being selfish and petty, and he was sure the Brass would agree, but sometimes he felt too big for his skin, and there weren't any breaks on the road to recharge, stop, and feel human again.

"Well, I don't think I'm doing anything. I could visit if you need a break or something. Moral support?"

"I'm signing autographs, not going to war."

"It's kind of a battlefield, though."

Well, damn, Bryan had a point. They clinked their cups together.

/

Jay slapped an icepack on his shoulder, wincing at the ache deep in his muscles. Mark never pulled when he dug into your shoulders, and it hurt like a son of a bitch. He couldn't complain; the match went off without a hitch, and he played victim to the Universe in all his whiny glory. Tonight he would be special guest referee to the Main Event.

Backstage was a different story.

Most Superstars would chill in the main room before their event started. The main room had catering, the larger television, and in most cases, the better air conditioning, so it was a no-brainer why the main room was superior. However, when Jay was done with his match, it was a complete ghost town, even with the Divas on screen. That, in and of itself, was cause for alarm. Where was everyone?

He nabbed a sandwich from the buffet table and halfheartedly munched on it as he looked around for any semblance of life. Cody and Ted were tucked away in some corner, whispering. Cody was gesturing furiously with his facial reconstruction mask, but as soon as Jay walked over to ask them a question, he stopped, eyes calculating.

"What do you want?"

Jay held up his hands, sandwich first. He seriously didn't need this shit. If Cody Rhodes wanted to act like a Prima Donna in a snit fit, that was his business. "Nothing, nothing. Just—"

"Jay!" Someone grabbed his elbow, and Jay looked up into Stephen's face. "We got our segment up soon. Hurry up." Trying his hardest to not roll his eyes, Jay let himself be dragged away to the renewed whispers of Dumb and Dumber.

Wait, was that his name?

Jay stood off-camera as Stephen and Matt wrapped up their little section, bored out of his mind. On cue, he stomped out, black and white stripes in hand.

"Christian."

"What?" He hunched up his shoulders. Stephen marched right up to him and started laughing. Jay pushed him around. "What?"

"Yer face! You look like a gorilla."

"Take that back, you ginger fu—"

"CUT!" The segment coordinator screamed, blowing frazzled black hair out of her eyes. "Jay, Stephen, do you need a time-out, or can you actually do this like professionals?"

Stephen looked down at his feet like a naughty schoolboy. "Yes'm."

"Yeah." Jay couldn't even make fun of a cowed Stephen; he was just as subdued. Sofí Wright (nee Ruiz) was not the type of woman one would cross if one wanted to keep breathing. Five foot five in heels but an eight foot five attitude, she prided herself on making the toughest men cry, starting with her husband, a former Hell's Angel leader. She ate pro wrestlers for breakfast and smiled with the gristle and gore still in her teeth.

She tapped her clipboard against her hip, deliberating. "Okay, from Christian's entrance. If either of you screw up one more time…"

Fearing for his boys, Jay played the scene straighter than normal. _'Don't screw up, don't screw up,'_ he pled to a higher power as he insulted Sheamus under the sharp eye of Mrs. Wright. "Snaggletooth" wasn't his best insult, not by a long shot, but the Celtic Warrior had to look away. Christian's smirk threatened to turn into a full-blown smile until he saw a Sofí-shaped shadow in his peripheral. Oh, God. He flounced after Sheamus's little threat and didn't dare look back until Sofí shouted for Jay to get his "tight little ass back here".

"Okay, that was…passable, I guess. We caught a bit of the industrial fans in the background, but we can edit that out. Stephen, Jay, thank you. Now, go do whatever manly things you do to get ready for a match._¡Angelito, vaya a editing room! ¡Vaya ahora!_"

"Remind me to never make a woman that angry."

"You got it."

"She prolly got back from tapin' Orton's segment, 's why she's so hell-bent."

Jay chuckled at that, slinging the ref shirt over his shoulder.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author**: Snarkcasm  
><strong>Rating<strong>: Teen, there's a few swear words; Christian won't stop swearing, the potty mouth. Also pre-slash eventually turning into slash.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Jay's struggling with losing his belt and a Viper he cannot shake. Eventual Randy/Jay, Jay POV.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I do not own any rights to the WWE or the wrestlers mentioned in the story. This is a story of fiction and I make no money from it.  
><strong>Author's Note<strong>: My reviewers and readers are amazing and I cherish each and every one of you :). I would like to give a shout out to **darlingharbour** who, aside from being a constant help and source of ideas when I'm slamming my forehead into the keyboard at three in the morning, is also a great Christian/Randy writer and lovely person in general. I also changed the name of Sin Cara. His real name is Luis Ignascio, so even though my computer loves auto-correcting Ignascio to Ignacio, I will be diligent!

**Room to Breathe, Chapter Seven**

The next day blurred by in a daze of whispers and Tylenol PM; too little sleep and too strong coffee from the greasy spoon downtown. Jay was still no closer to understanding the awkwardness with some of the Superstars backstage than he was to understanding Denise's decision. While the diner wasn't that busy, it was still criminally short-staffed with only one waitress doing the job of at least three with a smile on her worn face.

He needed the time to think anyway.

"…do you want?" Startled like a naughty child, he stopped chewing on his thumb cuticle. The matronly waitress repeated the question with a snap of her bubblegum. "Hon, what do you want?"

He apologized for wasting her time and ordered a BLT on wheat while she topped up his coffee and made idle restaurant chatter. He responded the best he could, but he mostly let her faint, raspy voice wash over him. She plonked down some ice water and a straw, and Jay grabbed the straw, fiddling with it.

"Smoker?"

Startled, he put down the straw, more aware of his fingers than ever before. "Uh, no, no. I used to be, but I quit." He had no idea why he was so chatty today; normally he was reluctant to discuss himself, even in interviews. He curled his fingers around the ceramic coffee cup for the wont of something better to do, the considerable heat leeching into his palms.

With a conspiratorial wink, she rolled up her uniform sleeve to reveal a round Nicotine patch. "I know the feeling, sugar. The hardest thing is finding something to do with fidget fingers." With that, she left, making Jay wonder about old habits dying hard. In retrospect, giving up cigarettes was damn easy considering what he had to deal with now.

_A gasp; a whispered 'I love you' in the hollow of a collarbone. A sweet swipe of tongue, the barest touches that sent shivers up and down his spine_. _The soft swell of breast underneath his calloused palms, the rush of a hard body caging his within powerful, tattooed arms—_

_**No!**_

He squeezed his eyes shut. He had been a saint for all the months they had been legally separated. Even though seeing other people was recommended by their marriage counselor, he wasn't comfortable in seeing others, even as one-night stands. It was the least he could do for Denise knowing that they both had awful reactions when it came to cheating. Now that the divorce was pending, he had been having urges. Urges that left him bolting up from his bed, sweaty, achy, and wholly unfulfilled.

He missed the sex—he wasn't ashamed to admit it, but most of all he missed waking up to another person in the morning. He missed reaching over to gingerly kiss his wife good morning before morning breath forced them both to the bathroom. And, thinking about it obsessively wasn't helping. His thoughts were blessedly interrupted by the arrival of his food.

He stared at his plate, half-heartedly pushing his fries around, appetite completely gone. A pity, really; the BLT sounded so good. He signaled for his check, pushing the plate away and cradling his face in his palms. He was royally screwed and not in a good way.

"Do you want a box for that, hon?"

"Yeah, thanks."

"Be right back with that and your check." True to her word, she was rather quick, setting down his bill and scooping the BLT and fries into the Styrofoam box. He took out his wallet and was in the middle of taking out some money when she remarked, "You're such a nice young man. I hope your relationship troubles iron themselves out soon."

He freaked, grabbing his leftovers, throwing down money, and left as fast as his legs could carry him. He was still freaked a few blocks down when he passed a convenience store, swore, and bought a pack of cigarettes.

The first buzz of nicotine took him back to the summer where Adam and he snuck a battered, nicked-from-the-'rents pack behind the old school and tried their first cigarettes together. Adam immediately retched, swearing them off forever, but Jay was hooked. Maybe it was because he was weaker, but when the nicotine hit his bloodstream, the euphoria blanketed him in a haze of calm. He had a hard time giving it up, in all honesty.

He took one last drag off the cigarette and grounded the butt against his boot heel. If he knew better, he would have thrown away the entire pack, but like a coward, he stowed it away in his back jean pocket.

/

Jay stopped at the hotel's service desk. The clerk working looked him up in the system and announced that he had a package. Tapping nervously on the faux marble receptionist desk, he only prayed that whatever it was wasn't divorce papers. The pimply-faced clerk pushed a plain, medium-sized, brown package towards him and handed him a mail log. Jay signed mechanically, focused on the random box. Every Superstar had a WWE-maintained P.O. Box for fan mail, so Jay knew it wasn't from a fan. Then again, no one outside knew where he was staying. As a precaution, he opened the package at the desk.

He slid a finger underneath the brown paper, carefully dislodging the packing tape, and peeled it back to reveal a shoe box. Thoroughly puzzled, Jay lifted up the cover and burst out laughing. There, nestled between several wadded Sunday comics was a lime-green kazoo.

The clerk gave him a strange look. "Is everything all right, sir?" he inquired in a professional tone far older than his gangly appearance allowed.

Jay nodded, still speechless. When he grabbed the kazoo, a post-it-note underneath it grabbed his attention. His grin grew as he read it.

'_2 PM, be there. Long live the stream.'_

/

"Hey, Reekazoid, did you like my present?"

He should have said something sarcastic or witty, but Jay was too busy laughing at Adam's mug splashed across his computer screen. Just looking at his best friend's face brightened the hell out of his day. He waggled his fingers at the camera and made small talk. Something was off, though, and it took a while into their conversation for Jay to figure it out. "Wait—why are you in Canada?"

"I wrapped up shooting for a cameo for a SyFy series, _Sanctuary_, three weeks—no five weeks—ago. It's been an interesting experience. Completely different from under stadium lights."

"Getting your ass kicked less?"

"Got it in one. It was a good gig. I got to be menacing _and _manipulative, and I had to wear extremely itchy eye contacts. I'll never make fun of Glenn for bitching about them again, I swear. I've also been in negotiations for another SyFy production. It's looking good, so far, so I might have a semi-permanent guest spot instead of the original cameo or two. It's a great cast."

"Do they want to keep you in the family or what?"

Adam shrugged and adjusted his webcam. "Probably. It's no big deal. The pay's good and I get to go to hockey games again." Jay was jealous, having only enough time to catch one or two games and check stats frantically between flights, and it showed. Adam was doing that stupid gloating expression where he pursed his lips and tried to look innocent. It didn't work in detention—which was usually Adam's fault anyway—and it sure as hell didn't work now.

They talked for a while, carefully tiptoeing around Jay's pending divorce and his feud, and as always, Jay didn't want it to end. Adam asked how he was holding up, and Jay lied through his teeth, dismissing his feelings of anxiety and worry over Denise. Out of the two of them, he was known not to hold a long grudge—which was why his _thing_ with Randy was so frustrating—so he knew that his dismissive answer would be taken at face value, even with a damnably perceptive Adam. The conversation wrapped up quickly after Adam threatened to release baby photos all over the internet if Jay didn't text regularly.

Jay powered down his laptop and shook his head; with Adam's constant hovering, he really didn't need the relationship component of a relationship. He pulled on some comfortable sweats and did some stretches and light exercise, focusing especially on his right arm. Later on today, he'd go down to a gym and lift weights, but for now, he needed the distraction from thinking about relationships.

/

Sweating underneath stadium lights in a leather jacket and whining to Michael Cole wasn't the greatest start to a Tuesday night, but since Jay was on contract, he didn't have a choice. Then again, it was miles better than the silence in the back.

Cole went along with it, catering to him as planned. No one could pull off sycophantic ass-wipe quite like the Heel commentator. And while he didn't necessary like Cole, he was a professional veteran in the biz, so if anyone could understand jumping through hoops, it'd be him.

The crowd wasn't working for him (there were still too many cheers for a Heel), so he had to resort to cheap heat for boos and catcalls. He called them and the viewers at home "clueless" and every under the sun short of "yo momma" jokes. He wasn't sure why he was trying so hard to get boos; most likely, the production team would add canned heat before the Friday night showing. He ended his little spiel by predicting getting his Belt back and not sharing the victory with the Universe and shook Cole's hand, leaving the ring and hoping his delivery didn't sound as forced as it did to him.

Why was he having a hard time with the mic in this feud? True, Jay was a true introvert, but he _never _had this tough of a time pushing an audience or adopting a character, whether it was being a lovable Beavis-and-Butthead archetype with Edge in the nineties or the Heel, Captain Charisma, with Tomoko (and everything in-between).

He headed down to Catering, positive that his head would explode if he thought about it anymore. He almost bumped into the Usos, but they had stopped. Jay never really talked to Josh or John Fatu, but he drummed up a conversation.

"Good luck, guys."

John, who portrayed Jimmy Uso, inclined his dark head. "Thanks. We caught the end of your promo just now."

Wonderful. Jay rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, well—"

"Jobbing must suck for a veteran," the younger Fatu brother spoke up suddenly.

John put his hand on Josh's shoulder and the twins held a conversation that Jay could not follow. The elder's eyes turned cold before he turned to Jay with a smile. Josh wisely kept his mouth shut and stared off into the distance, jaw clenched and expression wild and stormy. "Sorry about my brother. He's edgy about the match."

"Happens to the best of us." He watched them go, puzzled about Josh's outburst. By no means was he offended; Josh just stated an opinion, and Jay wasn't so petty that he'd call out the Samoan-American on it. Now, if Cody or Heath or any other upstart said that, things would be decidedly different, and Jay would probably be on probation for hitting another Superstar.

A PA flagged him down, informing him that he had ten minutes to get to his promo spot. The hair stylist, Rita, wouldn't let him leave the room without fixing his hair. When he was finally free of her gelled clutches, he rushed to the car bay outside and taken aback at just where they were filming. Randy's trailer, seriously?

The Powers that Be had set up a little TV outside for cue synchronization or some fancy word, but Jay couldn't help but stare as the Viper strutted down the ramp in his ring gear.

"So, Christian," came his voice through the tinny speakers. Jay had jumped, startled out of his thoughts. "I heard you were out here earlier tonight running your mouth before I arrived. So what I would like for you to do is to come down to this ring and—"

"Mr. Reso? We're about to go live soon."

Right. Back to business. Jay nodded and moved to his marker, shaking out his limbs as if he was going out for a fight. Which, truth be told, this segment was. He stood there nervously cracking his knuckles (this was practically live, he didn't know his all his lines, don't screw up, don't screw up) and the camera coordinator lifted three, two, one fingers in the air, pointing him to his cue.

Christian smirked. "Randy, Randy," he admonished, "you want me to come out right now? Do me a favor…why don't you ask the people what they want? Actually, why don't we do what Teddy Long does?" There was no way he was pulling this off. Widening his stance, he hunched over and threw up his arms, mimicking Teddy. "Hey playahs, who wants to see Christian come out there and confront Randy Orton? Holla, holla, holla." He danced around, too white for this shit, and struggled to keep a straight face with the fans' reactions streaming through the weak audio.

He dropped the dancing and his smirk. "Forget it, Randy. I know you want to do more than just talk. I'm not coming out there."

"You're right, Christian. I want you to be a man, come out here and deal with _this_, man to man. Face to face. And let me tell you something—let me tell you something, Christian. Beating the hell out of you was only going to be an added bonus."

Christian's smirk nearly slipped off his face completely as Randy adlibbed. Jay wasn't sure, but there was something _dark _in the other man's voice, even more so than what his character called for. Out of his peripheral, he could see the camera coordinator shrugging. "One more match for the World Heavyweight Championship, Randy." He held out a finger, chanting, "One. More. Match."

"I do not _care _what you want!" The other man exploded, and for once, Jay was glad he wasn't in the ring. Randy sounded (and looked) like he was ready to do business, and Jay wasn't having any part of that shit-storm.

"Well you should care, Randy, you should!" he shot back, wondering how in the hell did this turn pear-shaped. "Because, you see, before I smashed you in the face with the World Heavyweight Championship last week, I was the Special Guest Referee and I could have counted your shoulders to the mat, but, I didn't. Because I didn't want to beat Sheamus for the WHC, I wanna beat you. I know I can beat you, Randy. I _know_ I can beat you. You should be thanking me; you should be thanking me right now."

"_Thanking you_?" Randy went on to say his lines, but Jay was still focused on those two little words. What was wrong with Randy tonight? He wasn't one to really care about his feuds or put much effort into the mic, but tonight…tonight almost seemed personal.

"Randy, I'm finished doing things on your terms. I'm finished with doing things on Teddy Long's terms. I'm finished doing things on the 'peeps'' terms. From now on, we do things on Christian's terms. And, my terms are this: Christian versus Randy Orton for the World Heavyweight Championship at Capitol Punishment."

"Christian…you're on. But it doesn't matter where we meet next, the result will be the same. I _will_ beat you, like I always do. And I will remain the World Heavyweight Champion."

"I'll see you at D.C., Randy," and as a parting shot, he sped away in his rental SUV. He was only supposed to go to the end of the driveway and stop, but he couldn't. He needed to clear his head. He only went around the block, but when he pulled back into the parking lot, it was like he decided to go on a cross-country road trip by how much the backstage manager was screaming at him.

The manager was threatening fines when Jay just snapped. "I just went around the block. I came back. Get off my back."

"Hey, Jim, do you mind if I steal him for a moment?" Ted DiBiase looped an arm around Jay's shoulder. At that moment, Jay ran out of synonyms to describe how damned confused he was as Ted led him away from the irate manager.

"Thank you?"

"No problem. The yelling was getting pretty loud, and I thought you might need a hand."

"Again, thanks, man." Even though his gut wouldn't stop telling him how bad this idea was, ingrained politeness and gratitude had him going along with the situation.

"I've been meaning to ask you, how's the head?" What the fuck was Ted talking about? "Your concussion? You hit your head on some exercise equipment a while back?"

Oh. He had almost forgotten that incident. "I'm fine. I've always had a hard head. I don't think it was a concussion, though. They would have never cleared me if it was." Or, at least, he hoped. The arm still around his shoulders squeezed, bringing Jay's attention to it and the man to whom it belonged. He excused himself and discreetly moved out of the loose embrace, running smack dab into the last person he wanted to see tonight.

"Randy."

Randy Orton, out of his t-shirt and, by the looks of it, oiled up and raring to go, looked down at Jay and then to Ted, a sneer forming on his thin lips as he fixated his dark blue eyes back on Jay. "Jay, Ted."

"Hey, Randy," Ted said with an ease of which Jay was a little envious. "Nice segment tonight, really worked that mic." Silence. Absolute fucking silence. There wasn't even background noise to punctuate the awkwardness. Ted, the coward, said his goodbyes and high-tailed it out of there.

He moved to the left. Randy moved to the right, blocking his path. Sighing, Jay moved to the right. Randy followed in a perverse, mirrored game of "Follow the Leader". There was only so much Jay's inbred politeness could take, but he calmed down before he did something he would definitely regret.

"Something the matter?" He kept his voice free of anger, not willing to provoke a fight.

"How's Stephen?"

_What_?

"Uh," Jay had no way to respond to that non sequitur aside from: "I don't know. The last time I saw him, he was getting ready for his match. You can ask him yourself. I'm busy."

He brushed past the hulking mass of muscle, insides twisting at the subtle waft of spicy cologne. Jay needed to get a fucking grip. He shook his head and headed outside for a breath of fresh air.

/

Another sharp blow to the stomach with a kendo stick had Jay wincing at both the impact and the red bruise blossoming on Stephen's lily-white belly. Just what the hell was Randy doing? The myth of Sheamus was that he was the Celtic Warrior, and Celtic Warriors did not bruise. He watched Stephen flailing, trapped in the top and middle ropes. Randy was literally beating his friend like a red-headed stepchild, and Jay couldn't take much more of it.

"I'm going down there."

"No, not yet." Screw that. He rushed past the poor PA and towards the ramp's archway to the screams of the crowd.

Randy was in the middle of what Jay 'affectionately' called his "pouting gorilla-man pose" when Jay dove under the bottom rope and hooked Randy's elbows for his signature. Hard hands pushed him away and he could feel harder muscle surrounding his head. He wiggled out of the RKO and rolled out of the ring, hoping his early distraction gave Stephen a little more time to breathe. The Irishman looked terrible.

Jay staggered to the table near the announcers, back in the back corner, where the dummy Championship belt laid. "…bitter Christian is as well. He's bitter. He's like an ex-girlfriend who won't stop calling." Jay froze, eyes wide and fingers nerveless around the belt. Heat and ice rushed simultaneously through his veins as he could feel the tips of his ears go red in embarrassment.

Ex-girlfriend? Him? His heartbeat triple-timed, his limbs were both heavy and jittery, and he felt as if he was going to puke. What did Booker know? Better yet: what did the WWE Management know? Stephen's body slamming into the mat broke through his panic, and he scrambled to hit Randy upside the head with the Championship title. Randy fell with all the grace of a tranquilized bull elephant, head nearly clipping the steel steps.

He stepped out of the way for Sheamus to get the pin, Christian's smirk firmly in place as his emotions stormed and raged underneath the villainous expression. He glared down at Randy. A small part of him relaxed at the slight movement of Randy's chest and fingers, and he quickly buried _that_ underneath Christian's righteous anger. He stared at Randy's name branded at the bottom of the Championship during Sheamus's theme and the poor man rolling out of the ring, visibly exhausted.

Jay did not envy Stephen's morning.

Stepping over the prostrate man's head, he unbuckled the belt and knelt down. His thoughts were a blur about Randy, about Capitol Punishment, about his wife—he was starting to get fucking motion sickness from it all. He played it up for the camera, especially lifting up the title to an emptying crowd, but all he wanted to do was head backstage and back to his hotel. He had a fan obligation to go to. Make no mistake, he loved his fans—every last one of his peeps—and getting to interact with them face-to-face was a highlight of his career. He was just _tired_: mentally, emotionally…surprisingly not physically, but then again, he didn't fight tonight.

The cameras cut, and Jay held out his hand for Randy to take—he wasn't heartless, even he could see the No Disqualification match took a lot out of the Viper—but the man just stared at his hand before getting up on his own. Fine.

"Don't forget your title," Jay reminded the other wrestler. Without looking at Jay, Randy grabbed the fake title from his hands and strapped it around his waist, leaving the blond out on the mat alone.

What the hell was wrong with everyone tonight?


	8. Chapter 8

**Author**: Snarkcasm  
><strong>Rating<strong>: Teen, there's a few swear words; Christian won't stop swearing, the potty mouth. Also pre-slash eventually turning into slash.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Jay's struggling with losing his belt and a Viper he cannot shake. Eventual Randy/Jay, Jay POV.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I do not own any rights to the WWE or the wrestlers mentioned in the story. This is a story of fiction and I make no money from it.  
><strong>Author's Note<strong>: SCHOOL IS OF THE EVIL. That is all. Now, you all know I love bringing you this story, but I can't keep writing 3k words per chapter and get it out on a regular-ish basis. So, from now on, I'll be writing shorter chapters (and hopefully more frequent chapters). Keep your fingers crossed.

**Room to Breathe, Chapter Eight**

"It's too bad, Christian, it's too bad. It's _too _bad that Edge isn't here tonight. He could carry you to the ring. He carried you for seventeen years—what's one more day?" Jay flinched, sly smirk slipping off his face. He knew what Randy was going to say…even how he was going to say it due to the emergency table read earlier today, but hearing it out loud, at that moment, rubbed his nerves in all the wrong ways.

"You want me to come out there, Randy? Fine!" He forced out, marching out quicker than expected. The poor cameraman had to struggle to keep up, but Jay wasn't in the right mind to care as he stormed up the steel stairs and through the entrance. His music kicked up, and he was so close to ignoring his cues, diving into the ring, and cold-clocking Randy about the skull. Many of personal things were being slung around in their feud, but his comment about Edge hit too close and too hard to home.

Jay wasn't naïve, although, at times, he wished he was. He knew that his career at the WWE had hinged on the fact that Management wanted Adam so badly that they were willing to sign him along for the ride as well. He wasn't ashamed of that; he did his time at the Conservatory and his training in Japan; he proved himself time and time again during the E&C reign, and even more so after E&C had ended. However, his best friend's shadow was beginning to chafe, even as Jay did everything humanly possible with his Christian character to be looked beyond Edge's legend. When he had heard of an up-and-coming wrestling company getting a TV contract, he was eager to let his contract expire. On TNA, he found himself home…or at least at a place where he wasn't _just_ Adam's best friend. With Edge's retirement still fresh in his mind, he had thought he would be able to move to a new era, not completely eclipsed by his best friend's spot light.

To have Edge thrown in his face now, at this moment, was…

He jogged up the stairs and hit the entrance, bass thrumming through his veins. He hadn't been on Raw in the longest time and the audience was as welcoming as always. He caught a "Still a Peep" sign from the corner of his eye and had to fight down the smile that wanted to escape. He swiped a hand over his mouth, shook his head, and began backtracking. For once, Jay found himself agreeing with Creative's choice; the way Randy was crouching spelled out trouble, and Jay didn't want to go toe-to-toe with whatever issues the Viper was juggling today.

He quickly looked back to see a rookie wrestler donned in security black. He moved out of the way, eyes instinctively looking back to Randy…who was storming his way up the ramp. Oh, hell. Jay hung back on bated breath, Christian's smirk itchy, as Randy ripped through the rookie wrestlers like tissue paper.

The Raw Anonymous GM blinkered onto screen, and Michael Cole took his place at the laptop. Soon, his nasally voice permeated Jay's apprehensiveness and slowed Randy's bloodlust to a mere frustrated trickle.

"…You were hit square in the skull with the World Heavyweight Championship for the second week in a row by Christian." Randy's glare turned to Jay, and Captain Charisma's eyes widened, bracing for a wild charge. Their confrontation was supposedly a no-touch, but things…tended to happen during heated segments. The wrestlers-cum-security officers did a good job in holding back the infuriated Orton—holy shit, did Randy really rip that man's shirt?—but Jay wasn't exactly willing to put his proverbial life in their clumsy hands.

"Randy, if you do not comply, I will have no choice but to strip you of your World Heavyweight Championship."

Christian grinned unrepentantly, goading the Viper into attacking, even as the defeated man stalked past him. "C'mon Randy, come and get—" His taunt was cut off mid-word as Randy lunged forward, stopped only by the conveniently placed rookies. Jay vowed to learn each of their names and send them fruit baskets because the look in Randy's eyes promised something that the WWE Universe—and more importantly, Jay—wasn't ready for.

Jay was ashamed to admit that Christian's relief heavily mirrored his own.

/

Steve pulled Jay aside as soon as he stepped into the back. The Texan pulled him into a quick, one-armed hug, clapping the stunned Canadian on the back thunderously.

"What's with your shitty storyline, son?" "Stone Cold" Steve Austin had a way of making even grown men feel like teenagers; Jay was no exception. Jay mustered a shrug as Steve emptied a beer and crushed the can with a hiccupped belch. Instead of being wary of the literal beer fumes pouring from the bald man, Jay took comfort in it. Damn, it felt like old times, before the bullshit, the walkouts, the…everything that happened within those confusing, whirlwind early-00s years.

Jay felt more ancient standing next to the man who personified the Attitude Era than he did surrounded by all those fresh, too fucking eager faces in the back. They shot the breeze until Steve's next segment, and Jay could breathe again when the man left. He loved Steve like a second cousin twice removed, but he had a hard time respecting him after all the shit Debra went through with him and how poorly the WWE handled it. He could never do that to a person he loved.

He ran into Vickie on his way out. Hamming it up, he leered down at her playfully. "Hello, Cougar." He startled a huge laugh from her, and she covered her mouth in embarrassment, smacking him on the arm.

"Oh, shut up, Jay." He hadn't seen her for a while, and it was always nice to catch up with old friends. Nick hung off to the side, bleach-blonde mullet as gauche as usual. He liked Nick—good kid, great technical wrestler, decent on the mic—but his gimmick needed more work. He was in good hands with Vickie. "How's Edgie-poo?" Vickie asked, wrinkling her nose at the silly nickname. All three of them thought it was the stupidest storyline in the history of ever and would mock the hell out of it whenever they were together. Jay was one of Eddie's closest friends and supporters; Jay was Adam's best friend—Edge and Vickie's 'relationship' would have been so awkward if it weren't so damn laughable.

"Adam's fine. He's on a show, apparently. It's called 'Haven'."

"I haven't heard of it."

"It's on Syfy."

"Ah." They shared a conspiratorial smile at that. It felt so good to joke around with someone backstage. He had Bryan back at SmackDown, but it just wasn't the same as talking to a person that knew you inside and out. She put her arm around his. "How are you?"

Jay took a deep breath, eyes flicking to Nick, who was still there and trying his hardest to look like he wasn't texting Cardona. Jay would rather have a vasectomy than have the Long Island Loudmouth know his business. Vickie tugged Jay along the corridor and into one of outlying rooms. "Out," she ordered curtly, and the few nameless wrestlers in there scurried.

He sat down heavily, running a hand through his hair. She was patient with him, though, letting him gather his thoughts in peace. "Denise's leaving me," he said, treating his words like a bandage and ripping it off as quickly as possible.

Her face fell and her eyes turned sympathetic as she enveloped him in a loose, maternal hug. "Oh, honey," she breathed, arms tightening. She then smacked him in the back of the head. Hard.

"What was _that _for?"

"That was for not telling me sooner, Jay."

"It's not like I want anyone to know about this, Vickie."

She looked a little contrite after that. "Well, who else knows?"

"Adam and Charissa," Vickie rolled her eyes, "…and Orton," he mumbled quickly.

"_Excuse me_?" She cupped a hand around her ear. "Randy Orton knew before me?"

"Sshssh, not so loud! And, yes." He waved a hand to stop her complaint preemptively. "He…was there. When she called me."

"Oh…shit. Did she, did she find out about you two?"

Jay went into high alert. "Us two? Me and Randy? What about me and Randy?"

"You drunk-dial me," she cut through his blustering. "You realize that, right? Normally, it's just hilarious little voicemails I save to blackmail you, but I remember one night you were, uh, mumbling about, well, it had something to do with Randy."

Jay's face heated up and he lightly pressed the heel of his palms into his eyelids. Vickie Guerrero was not a shy woman by any means; he could only imagine what he had said to her to make her reluctant to share. Actually, no, he didn't want to imagine because that was a part in his life he was still pretending _never happened._

With some creative maneuvering, Jay deflected and redirected the conversation, reassuring her that he was out of his mind with the aid of alcohol and couldn't be responsible for whatever he had said that night. Before she could trap him in the room and get him to spill his guts, he begged off, citing the fact he had to get his ass on a late flight to Providence in time for his pre-show media circuit. Her stubborn stance promised that this wasn't the last she was ever going to bring this up, and Jay was glad, for the first time in his life, that he had early morning social obligations.

/

He clutched his cup of lukewarm coffee like a lifeline, his handler ushering him from the radio studio into a car that would take him to a local news station. He slammed down the rest of the sludge with a grimace, waiting for the caffeine to kick in.

His handler, a portly man by the name of Denis, shuffled through the notes he had made through the radio show. He adjusted his glasses, thin mouth pinched. "You have to be louder, Jay. I know that media chitchats aren't your strong suit, but you're representing the WWE, and you can't be too…" he trailed off, struggling for the exact word, "quiet. You handled the situation rather well when they brought it up, but that shouldn't have been an issue in the first place."

Jay pushed his pageboy hat down. The radio gig would have gone better if the woman—Cathy? Katie? Yolanda? he couldn't remember—would've stopped pressuring him to take off his shirt. He wasn't even going to touch the topic of Edge or how incredibly rude it was to field questions of his _own_ retirement.

He stayed behind to answer a few questions from the station's winner, remembering to curb his naturally sarcastic tongue and put away his claws. The winner was clearly nervous, but his questions were extremely predictable. Denis had praised him on his down-to-earth approach with the fan, and it was all Jay had in himself to keep from rolling his eyes. He wasn't new to the press junket.

The very thought that his career could be older than his handler made him slightly depressed.

Jay breezed through the news station and another radio station almost on automatic. Same shit, different day. He hated press junkets and would have rather been signing autographs for his fans.

Yes, Randy Orton is a tough competitor. Yes, he was sad to see his best friend go. No, he's not thinking of leaving yet. Yes, he will get the heavyweight championship belt back. Oh, yeah? Thanks for the support. Yes, he stretches before matches. It takes a lot of dedication to be a WWE Superstar. Ever since grade 6 where he broke his shoulder playing hockey and happened to catch a match. Yes, that long.

No, he will not take off his clothes. Yes, you may have an autograph. Thank you for being a fan.

By the time he stepped into the Dunkin Donuts Center, he wanted to curl into his own little corner where no one else could bother him. He instead heeded the call of his rumbling stomach and headed towards the canteen, hands burrowed into his leather jacket.

Grabbing a random cereal box, a bowl, and a small carton of milk, he settled down at an empty table. A wolf-whistle in his left ear had him jumping, on the defensive, until he saw a flash of pink and he froze. Natalya, flanked by her two rookie Divas AJ and Kaitlyn, plopped down next to him and looped her arms around him, shit-eating grin wide and gleaming.

"'Lo, Nattie."

"Hello, Jay-baby, loving the leather," she cooed her sugary venom, and Jay's hackles rose. Either Natalya wanted something or Jay did something to offend her; in any way, Jay was afraid. Mostly for his manly bits. She shooed away her entourage before brushing a hand down his jaw and fixing his lapels. She leaned into him and put pink-glossed lips to his ear. "Now Jason, what's this I hear about you and Stephen?"

Jay dropped his spoon. It made a wholly dissatisfying sound as it clattered to the—holy _shit_, where the fuck did _that_ come from? "What do you mean me and Stephen?"

"Oh, so Stephen didn't leave your room the other day?" While she sounded calm, her nails were slowly digging into his leather jacket.

"Wait, who told you that?" Was he dreaming? He had to be; this is how his nightmares usually started. He pinched the thin skin of his wrist and winced. Oh, shit. This was real, oh so fucking real. First Vickie now Natalie? If his mother called, so help him, he was buying a fake identity and leaving the country.

"Don't change the subject, Jason."

"I'm not…changing the subject," he totally was, "Who told you that?"

"Just locker room talk. Jay, you know you can tell me anything. My sister, the one who bakes? She's gay, and we _all_ support her one hundred and ten percent."

Then it clicked. The silences, the weird looks in the showers, how most of the Superstars would leave the room when he entered, the even weirder tension between him and Ra…_**fuuuuck**_. He gently disentangled himself from her clutches and held her out at arm's length. "Nattie, I'm not keeping anything from you." He gestured to the wedding band still stubbornly attached to his ring finger as if to say 'see? I'm not gay; I'm totally married'. "Stephen got extremely drunk, and he slept it off in the spare bed in my room. _Nothing happened_. So, go tell your gossip source or wherever you got that rumor from that they were wrong. Okay?"

She looked oddly disappointed, but she kissed him on the side of his head as if he were nine years old and did something especially precious and left, leaving him puzzled as hell and smelling faintly of her cloying perfume.

His eyes drifted to his wedding band, and he wondered how much longer it would keep the rumors at bay. He forced down the now-soggy cereal at hyperspeed, wanting to roam the halls and avoid Orton's little posse that just came through the door. Cody was impeccably dressed in his pressed suit, a disheveled-by-comparison Ted chatting amicably at his side. Randy looked on amused in his long-sleeved UnderArmor and sweats.

"Ooh, it's WWE Superstar Randy Orton," Cody mocked in a high falsetto, batting his eyelashes, "I don't care if you're on my table surrounded by my husband and child, I want you in me."

"And, even though I'm married," Ted continued the ribbing, lowering his voice, "to my lovely wife, I want you in me too, WWE Superstar Randy Orton."

Jay choked on his last spoonful. Luckily, none of the trio took notice, and Jay was glad with a continued anonymity.

Randy looked a little uncomfortable at that, shaking his head and scratching at his cheek. "You guys are asses."

"You gotta admit, Randy, that commercial is _hilarious_. Kmart Smart!" Ted hiccupped through his laughter, leaning on a giggling Cody. Jay blissfully didn't hear the rest as he shuffled out of the cafeteria like a bat out of hell.

/

"Hey, fella!" Jay was startled out of his pre-show pacing by the Irishman's exuberance. After realizing that everyone in the back thought they were fucking, Jay was a little hard-pressed to restart the rumors. "Wanna run lines?"

Jay should've said no, made up some lame-ass excuse, and just left Stephen to his own devices, but hindsight was 20/20, and Jay had a stubborn vendetta against learning from his mistakes. They were sprawled out in the main locker room—more traffic, more opportunities for the other Superstars to see that they were _just _friends. Jay kept a polite distance, more aware of their personal space than he ever had to be before.

What the hell was wrong with him? He never really cared about rumors…why now?

He rolled up his script, the overhead light glinting weakly off his wedding band.

"Y'okay, Jay?"

He had to smile at the man's concern. "I'm fine, Strawberry Shortcake."

"Oh, ya arse!" Stephen punched him on the arm, obnoxious laughter braying in his ear.

Jay glanced at the flat screen. Randy was in the middle of the ring, but the sound was off. Jay didn't know what was worse: seeing Randy's mouth distort with his snarls or actually hearing the barbs themselves. "Come on, we're almost up."

"You go on, I'll catch up."

Strange, but Jay didn't dwell on it.

/

Jay stood stock-still, the sweat from his brutal match with Sheamus cooling, tacky and gross, as Randy punted Sheamus right in the skull. Was that scripted? It sure didn't fucking look like it. What the hell was going on? Why wasn't he notified about the change in the storyline? He didn't mind being left in the dark, but this was his _own storyline_. A cameraman flittered by him, but Jay paid him as much attention as he would a fly, morbidly engrossed by the tableaux in the middle of the ring: an enraged Randy Orton hovering over a passed out, hopefully still a part of kayfabe, Stephen.

As far as messages went, Randy Orton had a flair for delivering them. Now, if only Jay knew what the hell the Viper was trying to say.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author**: Snarkcasm  
><strong>Rating<strong>: Teen, there's a few swear words; Christian won't stop swearing, the potty mouth. Also pre-slash eventually turning into slash.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Jay's struggling with losing his belt and a Viper he cannot shake. Eventual Randy/Jay, Jay POV.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I do not own any rights to the WWE or the wrestlers mentioned in the story. This is a story of fiction and I make no money from it.  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: We are in the uber-macho world of wrestling. There's slight homophobia, but it's not that noticeable. Be wary of the fact that there will be homophobia, both external and internal, in this fic. I want to be real to the world I've been observing, and unfortunately the WWE doesn't seem as gay-friendly as it wants to be.  
><strong>Author's Note<strong>: I'm seriously serious about punching school in the face. I want to thank all my reviewers, alert-ers, and fans (is that too forward a term?) for being awesome and waiting so long. I'm so sorry. I thought I could to the whole "shorter, more frequent update" thing, but that fell through quite spectacularly.

**Room to Breathe, Chapter Nine**

"Payback's a bitch."

Between the embarrassing Lou Thesz press and that particular quip, Jay was lucky he was battling back nausea because he did not want to be thrown in jail for murdering his fellow co-star. Then again, he remembered blunt fingers digging into pressure points in his jaw, and quickly revised his thought. In-ring Randy was a whole different animal than outside-Randy—everyone that faced him knew this, and Jay wasn't going to press his luck.

So, much like a coward, he played possum for the crowd.

Mike Chioda hovered over him like an annoying white-and-black bee as a fresh round of Orton's theme blared. '_Ugh, talk about adding insult to injury_', Jay thought, slightly punch-drunk, as he responded to Chioda's concussion questions with increasingly sarcastic answers. Chioda glared, unimpressed, as he hauled the Superstar to his feet and helped him take a few tentative steps out of the ring. Jay managed to stumble up the ramp without any assistance, clutching the back of his neck in a reprieve from the headache brewing between his temples.

Perhaps it was idiotic, but he waved off treatment to the protest of the main doctor. He knew his body; all he needed was a couple of Tylenol, an IcyHot back patch, and a brain-killing movie, and he'd be fine come morning. This PPV wasn't even the worse he had faced, even with the six-foot neck-breaker he took like a man.

Where the hell did Orton find _that_ move? He had thought, in the heat of battle, that Orton was trying to do Sheamus's High Cross and wasn't that a kick? The neck-breaker was inspired (and painful). He washed down his pills with coffee and hunkered down near his locker. Bones snapped, crackled, and popped into place as Jay stretched out his screaming muscles.

"Good match, _mi amigo_."

Jay's face split into a huge grin as he looked up to see the amused face of Óscar sans mask. "It was interesting. I liked the flailing at the end. Can't wait to see it."

Óscar chuckled and sat down on the bench, gingerly clutching his knee and moving it to a more comfortable position. Jay looked down to his own knee, bent towards his chest in an aborted stretch, and his gut churned. Everyone in the back knew that Óscar was wrestling on borrowed time. The luchador had so many knee surgeries that another one probably would do more harm than good. It was extremely selfish, he knew, but Jay couldn't help thinking of having to go through another friend's too-damn-soon retirement ceremony, barely keeping himself together as he had to say goodbye to other veteran.

"How's everything?" he began, politely ignoring the way Óscar shifted.

"Good," the other wrestler lied through his teeth with a guileless smile. "Good. Angie and the kids are great. Baby's still too young to travel, so I'm missing them like crazy, man. How's Denise?"

Shit. Jay fiddled with the laces of his ring boots. He was man enough to admit that looking at Óscar (and especially the rosary inked around his neck) would dreg up just enough Catholic guilt to choke him. "She wants a divorce." Óscar sucked in a breath, but Jay plowed through. "And I'm going to sign the papers as soon as I know why."

A warm hand settled on his shoulder. "Are you sure about this, Jay? You made an oath in front of God—"

"I know," Jay snapped. Perhaps he came off as a little too harsh, but he didn't need a morality speech right now. "But it's her decision, and I respect it."

"Are you respecting her decision…or are you not putting up a fight?"

That left a mark. Jay breathed in slowly, wishing he never opened his big, fat mouth in the first place. "You weren't there when we started falling apart, Óscar, so don't judge me."

"I'm not judging you, Jay," the luchador said, patiently. "Life on the road is hard. I shouldn't even have to tell you that, man, you know it. You're living it. What I mean is…me and Angie had a few rough times here and there—sometimes really rough—but we always managed to make it because we love each other."

Jay didn't like what Óscar was implying, and it showed in the stubborn line of his jaw. "I love Denise, too, Óscar. That's why I don't want to keep beating this dead horse. If she wants out, I'm signing the papers. I don't care if it's against your religion or mine—her happiness is worth it."

Óscar blinked, doe eyes impossibly soft. "_Vaya con Dios, mi amigo_." With one last squeeze of his caramel-colored hand, he hitched up his knee brace and hobbled away.

"'Baya corn Deeyos'? What does _that_ mean? Óscar, _what does that mean_?"

/

Power to the People was always interesting. It wasn't a huge secret that most wrestlers tended to be adrenaline junkies, so the unpredictability was right up most of their alleys. Anticipation buzzed through the air.

Jay had found himself hording the coffee carafe like it was going out of style. After so long in the biz, he was better at ignoring the obvious signs of constant traveling, like jet lag, but even someone used to extended travel had their off moments and his mind was screaming for caffeine. Already halfway through cup number three, the blond was now fighting the urge to go to the bathroom. He'd never abandon his precious coffee to these hooligans, especially since last time he did, some bastard spiked his poor, defenseless coffee with fake sugars, rendering it nigh undrinkable, but he seriously had to piss.

It was with a heavy heart that he tossed his cup in the garbage.

/

Dearest Shithead Brother of Mine,

As your older sister, I _demand_ you call me (at least!) or I'm going to indoctrinate your future niece to hate you on site. And/or projectile puke on you. I can do that; I'm a psychiatrist. Don't test me.

I'm not even joking. You better not erase this email, William Jason Reso, or I will destroy your entire being with my pregnant rage.

Elizabeth Reso-Campbell, MD

_Clinical Psychiatrist  
><em>_Toronto General Hospital_

_/_

Jay pinched the bridge of his nose as he deleted his sister's email. She knew how busy he was. He did write down a note to call her after his match tonight; he didn't want his future niece to hate him and he didn't put it past Liz to indoctrinate her. He went through his voicemails: Creative, Adam, Dad—he listened to each one with half an ear, idly surfing Wikipedia on his laptop. He found himself on Randy Orton's wiki, totally _not_ changing anything if anyone asked, when he got to Denise's voicemail.

"Jay," he had gripped the phone at the brief inhalation of his name, heart in his throat, "I…I'm sorry for not, not contacting you, avoiding you…for being a coward, I guess is the better word—" He shook his head, wishing they were talking face-to-face. "It's—this is a tough decision for the both of us. But," she sighed explosively and he could almost see her chewing on her thumb nail, "we both knew it was just a matter of time. God, Jay, I love you, I do. And I'll keep on loving you—"

The message went on from there, but it said nothing Jay wanted to hear, _needed_ to hear. She gave no reasons and stuck to excuses and played-out platitudes. Jay forced himself from throwing the phone or deleting the message. He didn't want to hear her RomCom "it's not you, it's me" bullshit. After all the weeks of false starts and one-sided, increasingly desperate communication, she just left him a voicemail with _that_?

He wasn't the most patient of men, but for his wife, he had tried. Much more than she, it seemed. The daunting feeling of repeatedly bashing headlong into a brick wall with his relationship with Denise roiled in his gut.

He needed to pace. He needed to smoke. He needed to go a few rounds with a punching bag. He needed…

With an explosive sigh, he flopped back on the bench and forced himself to surf through the movie rentals on his Netflix. He couldn't do anything tonight, not without repercussions.

And he had a match to focus on.

/

Closer to show time saw Jay working with Mike and Ron on their Stooges-esque roundabout, trying to keep from laughing when Mike couldn't stop staying "really". As depressing as it sounded, it felt good to laugh and be a total screwball again.

"Really?"

"_Really_?"

Jay got an idea. An awful, terrible, _wonderful_ idea. "Riley!"

"Riley?" Mike shrieked, affronted like a Victorian maiden. "Randy!"

"Randy?" Oh no he didn't. Jay bristled and got into Mike's face. "Riley!" There was a challenge in Mike's ice-blue eyes as the 'Awesome One' geared up for another round.

All of a sudden, the both of them were assaulted by Ron who flung himself between them. "JIMMY!"

They stared at each other for a moment before dissolving into totally manly giggles.

/

Jay stared down at the prone man, Christian's shock mirroring his own. He did it; he pinned Orton. He gloried in the moment, even though he knew that he had to job to Cena, slapping his chest and taunting, smug and elated.

He did it. He proved to the world that he was more than an upper mid-card. More than all the PPVs and all the main events he had with Randy, _this _was the moment he felt finally over.

He never took Cena's Five Moves of Doom more gracefully than he did that night.

/

He got the papers first thing in the morning. He stared at the manila folder in his hands, feeling rather anti-climatic. After all the chasing and the wishing and the hoping, it all came down to his scrawling signature on a dotted line. Jay resisted the urge to call Denise and called Liz instead.

If this was real, then he had to tell his family.

She picked up on the third ring, her voice a bit strained. Alarmed, he asked her what was wrong, and she waved it off, citing baby yoga for her breathless state. "What's up, baby bro? And why aren't you here?"

Jay ignored her second question and her nickname, taking in a deep, calming breath. "I'm divorcing Denise."

"_You're what?"_

Thank God he decided on practicing on Liz before telling their parents, he thought with a wince as her shriek rattled his eardrums. "We've been legally separated for a year, and I got the papers today."

"_You __**what**_?"

Jeez. He made a face at his phone. "It's what she wanted."

"Mom is going to _kill _you. _**I'm**_ going to kill you. How could you keep this from us? Can't you work it out?"

"It's not like I woke up last night and decided 'Hey, I want a divorce', Liz. We tried—"

"Try harder!"

Jay gritted his teeth. "We did everything recommended by our marriage counselor." Everything except Jay going back to TNA because Jay refused to feel like a too-big fish in a too-little pond ever again. "But Denise wants this, and I'm not going to drag it out any longer."

"You're not going to fight for her?" Liz sounded accusatory, dismissive, and it was all Jay had to not hang up on his sister. Just like Óscar. He explained his position, feeling like his back was against the wall, and quickly ended the phone call before either of them said something they would regret. He texted Adam quick before shutting off his phone. No doubt Lizzy was already telling their mother, and if there was something he didn't need, it was his parents trying to worm themselves into his love life (or lack thereof).

Without his phone, he felt like he was missing a limb. The alternative was having his phone blow up with angry texts, emails, voicemails, and he didn't need that pressure on him going into a match.

Naturally, he spent all of his free minutes dreading the moment he powered on his phone. When it was closer to show time, he had to find an empty hallway to mindlessly pace. Pacing was comfortable for him. It was a time just to not think. Breathe in. Breathe out. Turn. Rinse and repeat.

Today, Denise's voicemail and his call with Liz kept replaying over and over and over again until Jay was a tense ball of anxiety and rarely-tapped anger. He glanced at the clock, swallowed down his snarl, and got his ass to the ring. He had a mystery fight tonight; Booking was suspiciously quiet, which meant that Jay was going to hate it. Whoever the wrestler was, Jay was sure that he would make it out alive and on top. He was scrappy that way.

His anger carried him to the ring, but as soon as he ducked under the rope, he had a hard time accessing Christian's righteous anger at losing Capitol Punishment. He sniped back and forth with Teddy Long, not feeling it.

He asked when he would get another title shot. "It depends on if you _earn _a World Championship match," was the scripted answer and he felt his blood boiling unexpectedly.

"_If _I earn it. If _I _earn it. If I _earn _it? Why do I have to earn it? Why do I have to prove myself?" Why _did _he have to prove himself to anyone? To his sister, to his parents, to Denise; to the Universe? Theodore, to his credit, didn't flinch in the face of the wrestler's unmitigated anger.

"You lost playah." Jay froze, lips thinning as Teddy continued. "Now, if _you_ want another chance at the World title, then you're going to have to win your match tonight…against Kane."

Kane? That was his mystery opponent? The gloves flew off as Jay got into Teddy's face, all traces of Christian gone.

"Why are you doing this to me?" He heard himself scream right in the shorter man's face. "I don't deserve this. I don't deserve this." And when Teddy wanted to leave, Jay couldn't leave it at that. He rushed to block the man, hand latching onto the blue rope and caging him in.

"Christian needs to watch himself right there—" Booker T's tiny, tinny voice nearly stopped Jay cold. He let Teddy go, eyes wide at the shitstorm that nearly happened. He quickly wrapped himself up in Christian's persona, taking solace in the dependable alter ego.

Fuck. He needed to schedule an appointment with his therapist after tonight. He couldn't afford to let his anger overtake him again. He was the consummate professional.

And as the consummate professional, he had someone to apologize to.

"It's okay, Jay. Not my first time in the face of an angry wrestler; not gonna be my last." Still, Jay felt so horrible about his lack of decorum that he offered to buy Theodore dinner. The man declined not unkindly.

Jay hunted down his hallway, stomach churning, only to be dismayed that someone was already there. He muttered a greeting to DiBiase in passing, feeling a little lost in the Hershey stadium. His fingers twitched as if longing to send a text to Adam or Matt or Terry or Chris.

His feet brought him back to his locker room just as a cameraman was shuffling out. He excused himself, moving back to give him and his bulky equipment room. Why was there shooting in his locker room? He shrugged it off as he waited for the room to empty.

"Oh, goddammit," he swore under his breath as Randy Orton himself was the last to leave. If the Viper was surprised at Jay's presence, the man didn't show it. Not like Jay was expecting him to react or anything. Jay frowned, mostly at himself. He moved forward but something gripped the back of his shirt, and he looked up into Randy's eyes.

"Is…everything all right?" Jay hated to admit it, but he had missed Orton's concern…back when they were friends. Now, the concern rankled, but Jay already had one strike against him. If he blew up at the main star, Management was going to dock him.

"Yeah. Everything is fine."

"You're lying."

"Awesome. Not that it's any of your concern, but I'm having a rough night." Cordial, cordial, he had to be cordial.

"Is it about Denise?" The question, even as hesitantly worded as it was, set Jay's teeth on edge. Randy could be like a dog with a bone sometimes; it would just be easier to be honest and firmly tell Randy up which orifice he could shove his head.

"Yes. I signed the divorce papers today. They should reach her in less than a week. Happy now?" With that, he brushed past the other Superstar and shut the door behind him. He stared at his duffle bag, wondering why the hell he just lied.

/

Going toe-to-toe with Kane was not unlike wrestling a grizzly bear. Glenn was a very gentle man and an awesome friend—a complete softie—outside of the ring, but inside? His gigantic hands could do damage even pulling his punches, and he certainly had the height and weight to really hurt someone. Killswitch and Spear were useless moves against the Big Red Monster, but Jay was happy to see that even Glenn could fall victim to the Tornado DDT.

The crowd roared, and Christian knew Kane was gearing up for his Chokeslam. Jay wondered if he could fight out of the man's finishing hold. The crowd surged to a fevered pitch, and Jay turned around to see Mark Henry stomping on Kane. Christian's stupefied look mirrored Jay's confusion.

The bell dinged as Charles the referee tried to get Mark Henry out of the ring. As if the 400-pound-man could be moved if he didn't want to.

"_The winner of this match as a result of a disqualification—Kane_." Bullshit! Christian pitched forward in renewed anger, David confronting Goliath, as he touched Mark Henry's shoulder and got in his face.

Mark's eyes were pitch-black as he used his two inches in height to his advantage, glowering at Christian. Christian demurred, backing down from the heavyset man. He gestured wildly to the felled Kane and as one they pounced on him like lions on a wounded gazelle.

The big man pitched Kane through the ropes, and Christian stood back, hands up in an innocent gesture.

"Wait. Hold up. Hold up a minute." Teddy Long came in, microphone in hand. "Well, Christian…you lost _again_."

Christian's mouth hung open. The crowd booed emphatically. "What?" It wasn't his fault that Mark Henry stomped his way into the ring. Jay pointed at the man, trying to prove his point through an impressive use of mime.

"…It wasn't your fault this that Mark Henry got involved. So tell ya what. I'm going to give you a chance to redeem yourself." _Good_. Jay nearly collapsed on himself, Christian's joy at another chance palpable. "Now you can win a World title opportunity if you can win this tag team match I'm about to make right now."

Jay had a bad feeling about this. In a way he wasn't surprised when the stadium turned red with Randy's signature color, but he did feel wearily upset. He clutched his hair. Something must have passed across his face because Mark looked apologetically out of character. But Jay wasn't focused on Mark's apologies; he was focused purely on Randy and his infuriating smirk.

It would take a stronger man than him to admit that the Viper didn't look good as he sauntered confidently down the ramp with the gold slung around his shoulder. Jay ripped his eyes away and started to argue with Mark. He couldn't look at Randy anymore—he couldn't. It was bad enough that they'd be wrestling each other in a bit.

He glanced downwards right into Randy's stare and tamped down on the swear threatening to burst forth. Jay hemmed and hawed in his corner, debating with himself on whether or not he wanted to open. Mark made his decision for him as the lumbering man ducked under the ropes and took the tag line within his huge, dustpan hands.

Jay shook himself and took his place in the center, circling, never keeping his eyes off the Viper. His thoughts collided as their bodies did, rolling and tumbling and giving Jay a massive headache. Randy body-slammed him off the ropes, and Christian went down like a sack of potatoes. Opportunistic, Randy went for the cover, wrapping his body around Jay's head.

"I know you lied." Jay could feel the other man's breath of hot air against his ear and quickly kicked out to get more space. He backed himself into a corner, chest heaving. He was surprised that the referee allowed him time to recover, and Randy set himself up for a classic grappling grip.

Jay kicked him. Randy deserved it, the fucker. Christian followed up by a few heavy slaps, but the Viper got the upper hand with another body-slam and his favorite ground-and-pound. Shoulder and head twitching in pain, Jay rammed Randy into his corner and held on to the man for dear life as Mark tapped in.

He leaned against the ropes as Mark threw Randy around like a ragdoll. His chest burned with every breath. If only he was going up against Randy fresh! Mark slammed the Viper down on the canvas and walked over him, extending his hand.

Jay tagged in, oddly touched at the opportunity to take Randy down again. He kicked Randy in the back of the head and tried not to show his back to Kane. When he loomed over Orton, the Viper shot up and tugged him down in an inside cradle for the pin. Jay squawked in surprise.

"You're such an ass!"

"Too late for sweet-talking, Reso," Randy murmured into his ribs. Jay kicked out in anger.

Jay laid low for most of the match, coming in to take advantage and give Mark time to wreak havoc on the two other Superstars. He went after a barely dangling Kane, thinking that he'd be able to weaken him, but was laid out for his troubles, his kidneys hitting the sharp edge of the apron.

As he recuperated, all he could think was that hopefully he wouldn't find blood in his urine the next day.

It wasn't until Mark was downed that Christian stomped back into the ring. Distraction was key as a tag-team partner; lord knows that Jay knew that by rote. Whammied by a few clotheslines and a power-slam, Jay hung in the ropes and turned to be, once again, face-to-groin with Randy's crotch.

'I'm going to _kill _him for real this time,' he thought in a daze, recovering from the RKO he was literally pushed into, as the referee pounded the canvas for the one-two-three count.

_Somebody's gonna get their ass kicked_ started playing, and Christian grinned.

/

It was a different atmosphere that greeted Jay in the back. Superstars were actually touching him again—a slap on the shoulder here, a high five there—and people weren't conveniently remembering that they had something to do when he stepped into a room. He made small talk with a few stragglers as he grabbed his towel and body wash, slipped into his sandals, and pottered around the bathroom until a shower was free.

Pulling rank to get the next stall, Jay let the hot water and steam do their magic and dig deep into muscles stiff with lactic acid. If he could, he would have stayed under the spray until the water ran cold, but he had personal life damage to fix.

His relaxed muscles clenched, ruining the hot water's spell. With a little huff, Jay shut down the water, toweled down roughly, and knotted the damp piece of cloth around his waist. Little beads of water cooled and evaporated leaving gooseflesh skittering across his skin. He hurried and put on his sweatshirt, zipping it up halfway.

In retrospect, Jay was glad that he had his pants on when someone knocked on the door. "Come in," he called, voice muffled by the fact that he was shoving his shirt over his head.

"You're always the last one left, you realize that right?"

Jay finished getting dressed—there was no use confronting people with only one arm in a sleeve—before facing off with Randy Orton. "And yet, here you are." Not his greatest comeback, but the Canadian couldn't be arsed.

"Busy tonight?"

"As a matter of fact, I am."

"Too busy for a bite to eat?"

Jay closed his eyes and kept his cool. He wouldn't put it past the other man to tail him back to his hotel. Plus, Jay really wasn't looking forward to turning on his phone and fielding all the messages he knew he received. He weighed the pros and cons and reluctantly said: "Not really."

Orton's answering grin was too sharp to be considered anything but smug.


End file.
